Gault and Moale were breakfasting in the men’s house.
“How about the fur here?” asked Moale.
“All in good time,” said his master.
“Have you got the key to the warehouse?”
“Yes. But of course I have to make out that it’s sealed up in the desk.”
“I don’t see what you expect to gain by that bit of flummery,” said Moale.
“No?” said Gault sarcastically. “I am keeping the girl out of her father’s papers, am I not? . . . I know what I am doing. Suppose some one should come in here? Everything would be found in order; Blackburn’s will, his accounts, his letters. I have taken nothing, because there was nothing I wanted; it was sufficient for me to read it all.”
“What was in his will?” said Moale curiously.
“Oh, he left everything to the girl, of course. That doesn’t signify anything, because if there was no will, the courts would award it to her anyway.”
“Well, I’d like fine to have a look at that fur,” said Moale with glittering eyes. Fur was his passion. If he had other passions, he kept them hid.