Mr. Floyd came near saying whisky, but bethought himself in time.
“I have been much interested by your sad story, Mr. Floyd,” said the sorrow-stricken mother. “You seem to have a good and sympathetic heart.”
“Yes, ma’am,” replied Floyd; “that is my weakness.”
“Don’t call it a weakness! It does you credit.”
Mr. Floyd exchanged a sly glance of complacency with Abner Trimble, who was pleased that his agent got off so creditably. He had evidently produced a good impression on Mrs. Trimble.
“You see, my dear,” he said, gently, “that there can be no doubt about poor Edward’s death. I have thought, under the circumstances, that you would feel like making a will, and seeing that I was suitably provided for. As matters stand your property would go to distant cousins, and second cousins at that, while I would be left out in the cold.
“I know, of course, that you are younger than myself and likely to outlive me, but still, life is uncertain. I don’t care much for money, but I wouldn’t like to die destitute, and so I asked Mr. Coleman, the lawyer, to come round. I think I hear his ring now. Will you see him?”
“Yes, if you wish it. I care very little what becomes of the property now my boy is no more.”
Mr. Trimble went downstairs, and returned with a very respectable-looking man of middle age, whom he introduced as Mr. Coleman.