“Marks!”
The door was open, so that the lawyer's voice carried well down the passage.
“Yes, sir.”
“I will see Mrs. Agar now.”
And Mrs. Agar was shown in, all bustling with excitement.
“Mr. Rigg,” she said, with some dignity, “has Mr. Glynde been here?”
The lawyer beamed again—literally all over his parchment-coloured face, except the eyes, which remained grave.
“When, my dear madam?” he asked, as he brought forward a chair.
“Well, lately—since my son's death.”
The lawyer opened a large diary, and proceeded to trace back each day with his finger. It promised to be a question of time, this ascertaining whether Mr. Glynde had called within the last week. It was marvellous how well this man of deeds knew his clients. Mrs. Agar had never persevered in any inquiry or project that required time all through her life. Mr. Rigg, behind his disarming smile, could see as far into a crape veil as any man.