Neville looked up with his fleeting smile. "Oh, so do I! I shall try hard not to let all this vulgar wealth corrupt my soul."
"It's a great responsibility," said the lawyer gravely.
"I know, that's what depresses me. People will expect me to wear a hat, and look at tape-machines."
"I hope you will do more than that," replied the lawyer.
"Now, if you please, I should like to have a word with your aunt. Perhaps you could take me to her."
Neville obligingly rose, and opened the door for him. They passed out of the room together, and Sergeant Hemingway, who had been standing silent in the window, said: "Who's the bit of chewed string, Chief?"
"The heir," answered Hannasyde. "Neville Fletcher."
"Oh! well, I don't grudge it him. He looks as though he hasn't got tuppence to rub together, let alone hardly having the strength to stand up without holding on to something."
"You shouldn't go by appearances, Sergeant," said Hannasyde, a twinkle in his eye. "That weary young man holds the record for the high jump. Got a half-blue at Oxford, so the solicitor informed me."
"You don't say! Well, I wouldn't have thought it, that's all. And he's the heir? What did I tell you? Motive Number One."