“What you must say is that you have received your brother's effects,” he said. “If they ask from whence—from the War Office. I am the War Office to all intents and purposes. The affair is almost forgotten. All the details have been published—the usual newspaper details, with Fleet Street local colouring. You should have no difficulty.”
“No,” answered Arthur meekly, but with another mental reservation.
“There are, of course, certain legal formalities in progress,” went on the General, “relative to the estate. Those must be allowed to go on. We may trust the lawyers to go slowly. And afterwards they can amuse themselves by undoing what they have done. That is their trade. Half of them make a living by undoing what the others have done. You are ...”
Seymour Michael so far forgot himself as to pause and make a mental calculation. Arthur saw him do it and never thought of being surprised. It seemed quite natural that this man should possess data upon which to base mental calculations.
“... not twenty-one yet?” Michael finished the sentence.
“No.”
“So that, you see, they cannot make over the estate to you before the time your brother comes or—should—come—back.”
Arthur understood the emphasis perfectly this time. He was getting on.
“There are,” continued Michael, who was eminently methodical, “a few military formalities, which have had my attention. In fact, I think that everything has been attended to. In case you should require any information, or perhaps advice, write to C 74, Smith's Library, Vigo Street. That is the address on that envelope.”
Arthur rose too. The thought that his visitor might be about to depart thrilled through him with the warmth of relieved suspense.