The door of the private office was not quite closed; so that the voices of two men were faintly audible. Mr. Mix cast about him, made sure that he was unobserved, and dignifiedly changed his seat––nearer that door.
“Yes,” said a voice which at first he couldn’t recognize. “The deed’s recorded. So legally, Henry owns the property now.” Mr. Mix nodded triumphantly; the voice belonged to Mr. Archer, a leading lawyer and Mr. Starkweather’s closest friend.
“That’s the idea.” This was in Mr. Starkweather’s familiar bass. “Now how’d you fix the will?”
“Why, it was very simple. Your point was that you didn’t want everybody to know what was going on. So––”
“No. And if I put a lot o’ conditions like that in a will, why just as soon as it was probated, Henry and Mirabelle’d both get an awful lot o’ bum publicity. They’d both be sore, and I’d look like a nut.... Naturally, I don’t plan to die off as soon as all this, but better be safe. I just want to fix it up so Henry’ll get the same deal no matter what happens.”
“Very wise, very wise,... Well, here’s what I’ve done. I’ve changed the will so that the entire residuary estate is left to me in trust for your sister and nephew to be administered according to the trust-deed we’re executing today. They can probate that until they’re black in the face, but nobody’s going to find out any more than we want them to.”
“Sounds all right so far, but don’t you have to take a trust agreement like that into Court, too?”
“Sooner or later, yes. But you’ll notice that I’ve covered it so that unless Henry or Miss Starkweather says something, nobody’s going 33 to know until the year’s out, and I make the accounting. Now for the trust agreement itself––if Henry demonstrates to me that within a year––”
“A year from August first. The lease don’t expire ’till then, and Henry won’t be home ’till then. August to August’s what I’m goin’ to put up to him.”