“I shall want you and the missis to come to the funeral, Gladman,” said Mr. Clodd, as he swung into the stationer’s shop; “and bring Pincer with you. I’m writing to him.”
“Don’t see what good we can do,” demurred Gladman.
“Well, you three are his only relatives; it’s only decent you should be present,” urged Clodd. “Besides, there’s the will to be read. You may care to hear it.”
The dry old law stationer opened wide his watery eyes.
“His will! Why, what had he got to leave? There was nothing but the annuity.”
“You turn up at the funeral,” Clodd told him, “and you’ll learn all about it. Bonner’s clerk will be there and will bring it with him. Everything is going to be done comme il faut, as the French say.”
“I ought to have known of this,” began Mr. Gladman.
“Glad to find you taking so much interest in the old chap,” said Clodd. “Pity he’s dead and can’t thank you.”
“I warn you,” shouted old Gladman, whose voice was rising to a scream, “he was a helpless imbecile, incapable of acting for himself! If any undue influence—”
“See you on Friday,” broke in Clodd, who was busy.