Volume Two—Chapter Thirteen.
The Biter Bit.
The lawyer’s letter surprised him somewhat, but Markworth had no fears or presentiment of what was the motive or would be the upshot of the missive.
“Ha!” he thought, “they want to compromise, do they? It’s rather late in the day for that, and they won’t catch me with any chaff. But I may as well go round and see what they are after.”
At eleven o’clock precisely, the hour they had fixed for the interview, Markworth tapped at the half-open green baize door which led into the outer office of Messrs Trump, Sequence and Co.’s chambers in Bedford Row.
“Mr Trump in?” he asked of the old clerk, whose desk, surmounted by the mahogany face and head, with the grizzled hair standing upon end as if it had been electrified, faced the door.
“Yes, sir,” answered that worthy, speaking through his shut lips, “Mr Trump and Mr Sequence both in. Yer name Markworth, b’lieve?”—and Markworth nodded—“Waiting to see you. Both in there!” pointing to the door of the inner office, where, on entering, our friend found the lawyers arranged in state, one on each side of a table, covered with papers and a wrinkled parchment folio, endorsed on the outside, “Last will and testament of Roger Hartshorne, deceased.” Markworth took in all the preparations at a glance, the lawyers with their pleasant about-to-perform-an-operation expression of face, the paper-covered table, the will, the dentist-like looking easy chair, placed handily for him between the solicitors, exposing him to their fire on either flank, and all.
“Aha! Good morning, Mr Markworth. Fine day,” said Mr Trump; and “Aha! Good morning, Mr Markworth. Fine day,” echoed Mr Sequence after him, as customary, in his feeble treble.
“Good morning,” he answered, “You sent for me, eh?”
“We sent for you, Mr Markworth, because,” said Mr Trump, smiling and rubbing his hands gleefully, as he always did before plunging into his subject. “We sent for you, Mr Markworth, because,” said the echo, without any smile, however, or rubbing of hands.