Seeing that there was nothing to be said, Paul went to the door. But there his common sense left him and he made a valedictory speech. "I know that Mr. Krill left the money to Sylvia."
"Oh, no," said the widow, "to his daughter, as I understand the wording of the will runs. In that case this nameless girl has nothing."
"Pash!" cried Beecot, turning despairingly to the little solicitor.
The old man shook his head and sucked in his cheeks. "I am sorry, Mr. Beecot," said he, in a pitying tone, "but as the will stands the money must certainly go to the child born in wedlock. I have the certificate here," he laid his monkey paw on it, "but of course I shall make inquiries."
"By all means," said Mrs. Krill, graciously. "My daughter and myself have lived for many years in Christchurch, Hants. We keep the inn there—not the principal inn, but a small public-house on the outskirts of the village. It will be a change for us both to come into five thousand a year after such penury. Of course, Mr. Pash, you will act for my daughter and myself."
"Mr. Pash acts for Sylvia," cried Paul, still lingering at the door. The lawyer was on the horns of a dilemma. "If what Mrs. Krill says is true I can't dispute the facts," he said irritably, "and I am unwilling to give up the business. Prove to me, ma'am, that you are the lawful widow of my late client, and that this is my late esteemed client's lawful daughter, and I will act for you."
Mrs. Krill's ample bosom rose and fell and her eyes glittered triumphantly. She cast a victorious glance at Beecot. But that young man was looking at the solicitor. "Rats leave the sinking ship," said he, bitterly; "you will not prosper, Pash."
"Everyone prospers who protects the widow and the orphan," said Pash, in a pious tone, and so disgusted Paul that he closed the door with a bang and went out. Tray was playing chuck-farthing at the door and keeping Mr. Grexon Hay from coming in.
"You there, Beecot?" said this gentleman, coldly. "I wish you would tell this brat to let me enter."
"Brat yourself y' toff," cried Tray, pocketing his money. "Ain't I a-doin' as my master tells me? He's engaged with two pretty women"—he leered in a way which made Paul long to box his ears—"so I don't spile sport. You've got tired of them, Mr. Beecot?"