“Contents!” he exclaimed. “He left everything—everything!—to my cousin! Everything to her.”
“And nothing to you,” said Burchill, accentuating his habitual drawl. “Really, how infernally inconsiderate! Yes—now I see that it is serious. But—only for you.”
Barthorpe glared angrily at him and began to growl, almost threateningly. And Burchill spoke, soothingly and quietly.
“Don’t,” he said. “It does no good, you know. Serious—yes. Most serious—for you, as I said. But remember—only serious for you if the will is—good. Eh?”
Barthorpe jumped to his feet and thrust his hands in his pockets. He began to pace the room.
“Hang me if I know what you mean, Burchill!” he said. “Is that your signature on that will or not?”
“How can I say until I see it?” asked Burchill, with seeming innocence. “Let’s postpone matters until then. By the by, did Mr. Tertius say that it was my signature?”
“What do you mean!” exclaimed Barthorpe. “Why, of course, he said that he and you witnessed the will!”
“Ah, to be sure, he would say so,” assented Burchill. “Of course. Foolish of me to ask. It’s quite evident that we must postpone matters until this will is—what do you call it?—presented, propounded—what is it?—for probate. Let’s turn to something else. My letter to your uncle, for instance. Of course, as you’ve got it, you’ve read it.”
Barthorpe sat down again and stared.