CHAPTER IX
NO AUTOMOBILES ALLOWED
“Jerry,” says Poppy, as we sort of hurtled down the sandy country road at the hair-raising speed of six miles an hour, or less, “that lawyer is a crook.”
“He almost got his nose crooked,” I grinned, remembering the fracas on the porch of the big stone house.
“He hates Ma Doane, of course—we could easily see that—but there’s more than spitework back of his threat to get the sheriff.”
“You think he’s got a reason for wanting to kick the others out of the house?”
“Absolutely. He talked big about his duty to the dead man. But that was all bluff. ‘Dollars’ is a bigger thing in his mind than ‘duty.’ You wait and see if I haven’t got the right line on him.”
“The dope about the granddaughter’s visit didn’t seem to tickle him for two cents.”
“I’ll tell the world it didn’t. And right there is where we pick up a clew, kid. He doesn’t want her to come here and use the house. Furthermore, he doesn’t want Ma Doane or anyone else living there. See? That’s why he’s getting the sheriff.”
“He knows what’s in the will—Ma said so.”
“Sure thing. And if he’s actually trying to keep the family of the dead man out of the house, as we think, it’s a pretty safe bet that he’s doing it to line his own pockets. For, as I say, he struck me as being an old money grabber. You know what I mean—the ‘Shylock’ kind. And I don’t think he cares a whang whether he gets his money honestly or not. Men of his stamp usually show in their faces what they are. And the rogues’ gallery never held a crookeder face than his.”