Mrs. Agar was one of those fatuous ladies who think themselves capable of tricking a professional man out of his fee. She had a vague notion that if one asks a lawyer a question the price of his answer is at least six shillings and eightpence. Up to this point in the interview she was serenely conscious of having eluded the fee.
“I presume,” she remarked carelessly, in pursuance of this economical policy, “that in such a case the property would go unconditionally to the second son.”
“There are contingent possibilities,” replied the man of subterfuge blandly. He did not mean anything at all, but shrewdly guessed that Mrs. Agar would not credit him with so simple a design.
The lady smiled in a subtly commiserating manner, indicative of the fact that on some family matters the ignorance of all except herself was somewhat pitiful.
“Of course,” she said, “as regards the present case, I know perfectly well that both Jem and his father would wish everything to go to Arthur.”
She was picking a thread from the corner of her jacket with an air of nonchalance.
Mr. Rigg was silent. He had some thirty years before this period given up attaching importance to the wishes of the deceased as interpreted by disinterested survivors.
“And I should imagine that the necessary transfers—and—and things would be much better put in hand at once. Delay seems to me quite unnecessary.”
She paused for Mr. Rigg's opinion—quite a friendly opinion, of course, without price.
“Pardon me,” said that lawyer, driven into a corner at last, “but are you consulting me on behalf of the late Squire's executor, Mr. Glynde, or on your own account?”