"What must be done, Thomas, must be done by management," said the younger twin. "We must use diplomacy, as they term it. You must go away for a while. It's a slack time with us now, and you've naught particular to do—go and have a fortnight at Scarborough Spaw, and when that's over go and see Cousin Happleston at his farm in Durham; he'll be glad to see you. And while you're away I'll get the matter settled—leave it to me."
Thomas considered that very good advice and said he would act on it, and he went off to his room earlier than usual in order to pack a portmanteau, so that he could set off from the immediate scene of his late woes early next morning. When he had departed Matthew mixed himself his usual nightcap, and, having taken a taste of it to see that it was according to recipe, proceeded to warm his back at the fire, to rub his hands, and to smile.
"It were a good conception on my part to speak to Lawyer Sharpe on that matter," he thought to himself. "I wonder Thomas never considered of it."
He drew a letter from his breast-pocket, and read it slowly through. This is what he read—
"PRIVATE
10, Market Place, Cornborough,
May 11, 18—.
"MR. MATTHEW POGMORE.
"DEAR SIR,—In accordance with your instructions I have caused the will of the late Mr. Samuel Walkinshaw, of the Dusty Miller Hotel in this town, to be perused at Somerset House. With the exception of a few trifling legacies to servants and old friends, the whole of the deceased's fortune was left unconditionally to the widow, there being no restriction of any kind as to her possible second marriage. The gross personalty was £15,237 odd; the net, £14,956 odd. In addition to this the freehold, good-will, stock and furniture of the Dusty Miller was also left to the widow.
"I am, dear sir, yours faithfully,
"SAMUEL SHARPE."
Matthew folded this epistle carefully in its original folds and restored it to his pocket, still smiling.