“Correct. If he demonstrates to me that within the calendar year he’s made a net profit of ten thousand dollars from the property––by the way, isn’t that rather steep?”
“No. Man’s in there now’s made three thousand and manhandled it. Just horse-sense and some alterations and advertising’ll bring it up to ten.”
“You’re the doctor. If Henry makes ten out of it, then he receives from me, as trustee, the whole residuary estate, otherwise it goes to your sister. And during that trial year, she gets the whole income from it, anyway.”
Mr. Mix was sitting motionless as a cat.
“That’s right.”
“Well, then, if you’ll just read these over and make sure I’ve got your meaning, and then get 34 a couple of witnesses in here, we can clear the whole thing up and have it out of the way.”
Mr. Mix heard the scrape of chair-legs against the floor, and hastily, on tiptoe, he crossed the room to his original seat, and in passing the centre table he helped himself to a magazine which he was reading with much concentration when the door of the private office opened.
“Why, hello, Mix,” said Mr. Starkweather. “Been waitin’ long? Be with you in half a second.”
“Just got here,” said Mr. Mix, as though startled. He returned the magazine to the table, and was still standing when his friend came back, in convoy of young Mr. Robert Standish, his chief assistant.
“Come on in, Mix. Want you to witness a will.”