“No, no, finish the bequest to me.”
“I did, sir. One hundred pounds to buy mourning.”
“What? Treat me worse than his servants?”
“I believe, Mr Artis, if you will excuse me, that a testator has a perfect right to do what he likes with his own.”
“Then you influenced him,” cried Artis furiously. “I shall dispute the will.”
The old gentleman smiled.
“Influenced my old friend to leave me his signet ring, eh, Mr Artis? No, sir, the will was written by Colonel Capel himself, and afterwards transferred to parchment. If you will allow me. I will proceed.”
“I shall dispute the will. I say so at once,” cried Artis, “that there may be no mistake. One hundred pounds each to Miss D’Enghien and myself! It is absurd, paltry, pitiful.”
“You never saw the testator, Mr Artis?”
“No, sir.”