“I’ve heard nothing.”
“Dead—killed in the war.”
“Dead! Well, to be sure.”
“Yes, poor boy—killed.”
“Dear, dear!” murmured Mr. Trimmer, growing meditative.
Mrs. Ripon knew what he was thinking—or imagined that she did. There was no one now to inherit Herresford’s money but Mrs. Swinton, and 176 she believed that Trimmer was wondering how much of it he would get for himself; for it was a popular delusion below stairs that Mr. Trimmer had mesmerized his master into making a will in his favor, leaving him everything.
“How did Mr. Dick get away?” asked Mr. Trimmer. “Surely, his creditors wouldn’t let him go.”
“Ah, now you have touched the sore point, Mr. Trimmer. The poor young man swindled—yes, swindled the bank, forged checks in his grandfather’s name.”
Mr. Trimmer allowed some human expression to creep into his stone face. He puckered his brows, and his usually marble-smooth forehead showed unexpected wrinkles.
“It was the very last thing we’d have believed, Mr. Trimmer; it was for seven thousand dollars.”