“That I cannot say for certain,” replied the lawyer. “I gathered that Sir Garth had made use of some expression—something about ‘cutting off’ or ‘disinheriting,’ perhaps—that might have given Mr. Ryland an idea of what was in the wind.”
“But did he know that the new will was to have been signed on the day you say it was—25th October?”
“That again I don’t know—I should doubt it.”
Evidently that was a point that must be looked into; Poole made a mental note of it and turned to another line of approach.
“And the cause of the change, sir?”
Mr. Menticle, who had been standing all this time, returned to his chair on the other side of the fireplace and slowly filled and lit a long-stemmed brier pipe. Poole got the impression that the lawyer was taking time to arrange his ideas. After a draw or two, and the use of another match, Mr. Menticle replied to the question that had been addressed to him. He spoke slowly and deliberately.
“It was, I think, the culmination of a long series of disagreements and even quarrels between the two. Sir Garth was a man of very strict, perhaps narrow, views, particularly as regards women and money. Ryland, on the other hand, though an attractive and charming boy—in my opinion—is very weak on both these points. His head is turned by every girl he meets, with the inevitable consequence of entanglements, and he has no idea of the value of money. When I tell you that he was very keen on everything to do with the theatre and moved in—shall I say—rather Bohemian circles, you can understand what those two weaknesses led him into.”
Poole nodded. “Definite trouble?”
“Definite trouble. About two years ago he got engaged to a young lady of the name of Crystel—Pinkie Crystel—that was her stage name; her real name was Rosa Glass—I know because I had to negotiate the ransom, so to speak. That cost Sir Garth £10,000. He was very angry—not without reason. Ryland was repentant, swore to leave chorus girls alone, promised definitely not to get engaged again without his father’s consent. Within a month the chorus girl business had begun again—he could not keep away from them—and they cost him money—more than his allowance. From time to time Sir Garth had to hear of it, had to stump up—comparatively small sums, it is true; still the irritation was there. At the same time Ryland, who really, I am sure, was devoted to Sir Garth, felt his affection being chilled by repeated rebukes. He saw less and less of Sir Garth, ceased living in the house—steered clear of him as far as possible. Miss Inez, naturally, was miserable about it—did everything to bring them together, but without success—they were both obstinate men.
“Finally, about a fortnight before Sir Garth’s death, he received a letter from Ryland saying that he had got entangled with another girl—I don’t know the name in this case—and that she was asking for £20,000 or matrimony—and Ryland was straight enough to say that he had found he didn’t like her after all and simply couldn’t marry her. Naturally there was a flare up; unfortunately Sir Garth read the letter when he got back to his house just after having an unpleasant shock—a narrow escape from being run over—in the City. No doubt he was feeling unwell; he sent for Ryland, who happened to be in the house—as a matter of fact I believe the boy had come there to face the music—had a first-class row with him and finally packed him off with a ‘curse and a copper coin,’ as it used to be called. Ryland left the house and never returned to it in Sir Garth’s lifetime, and then only at Miss Inez’ urgent entreaty, as she herself told me.”