THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE HAMLYNS
"Gussie Davies says that she's sure that Miss Pritchett hasn't added a codicil," said Mr. Sam Hamlyn, coming into the inner room at the offices of the Luther League.
Mr. Hamlyn, Senior, had been at work for some hours, but his son had only just arrived in the Strand. It was the day after Miss Pritchett's death, and Sam had remained in North London to make a few inquiries.
"What a blessing of Providence," said the secretary. "There's something to be said for a ritualistic way of dying, after all! If it 'adn't been for her messing about with the oil and that, she'd have sent for her solicitor and cut the League out of her will! The priests have been 'oist with their own petard this time."
"I wonder how much it'll be," Sam said reflectively.
"I don't anticipate a penny less than two thousand pound," said Mr. Hamlyn, triumphantly. "P'raps a good bit over. You see, we got 'er just at the last moment. It was me taking the consecrated wafer did it. She woke up as pleased as Punch, it gave her strength for the afternoon, and had the lawyer round at once. I never thought she'd go off so sudden, though."
"Nor did I, Pa. Well, it's a blessing that she was able to contribute her mite towards Protestant Truth before she went."
"What?" said Mr. Hamlyn sharply; "mite?—has Gussie Davies any idea of 'ow much the legacy is, then?"
"I only spoke figuratively like, Father."
"How you startled me, Sam!" said the secretary, his face resuming its wonted expression of impudent good humour.