“By the way, Mr. Fordingbridge,” he asked, glancing round to see that there was no one within earshot, “there's just one point I'd like you to clear up for me, if you don't mind.”
Paul Fordingbridge stared at him with an emotionless face.
“Very glad to do anything for you,” he said, without betraying anything in his tone.
“It's nothing much,” Sir Clinton assured him. “All I want is to be clear about this Foxhills estate and its trimmings. Your nephew owns it at present?”
“If I have a surviving nephew, certainly. I can offer no opinion on that point, you understand.”
“Naturally,” Sir Clinton acquiesced. “Now, suppose your nephew's death were proved, who are the next heirs? That's what I'd like you to tell me, if you don't mind. I could get it hunted up at Somerset House, but if you'll save me the trouble it will be a help.”
“Failing my nephew, it would go to my niece, Mrs. Fleetwood.”
“And if anything happened to her?”
“It falls to me in that case.”
“And if you weren't there to take it by then?”