“Oh, yes, it can,” Doctor Hilary had replied with greater assurance still. “See here—” and he had begun all over again.
“Tut, tut,” James Glieve had clucked on the conclusion of the third recital. “You’ve said all that before. I tell you, man, the whole business is too unusual. It—I’m sure it isn’t legal. And anyhow it’s mad. What’s the name of your—er, your deceased friend?”
“The name?” piped Henry Parsons.
“Nicholas Danver,” had been the brief response.
“Nicholas Danver!” James Glieve had almost shouted the words. “Nicholas Danver! God bless my soul!” And he had leant back in his chair and shaken with laughter. Henry Parsons, true to his rôle, had chuckled at intervals, but feebly. For the life of him he could see no cause for mirth.
“Oh, Nick, Nick,” sighed James Glieve, wiping his eyes after a few minutes, “I always vowed you’d be the death of me. To think of you turning up in the life of a staid elderly solicitor at this hour.”
Henry Parsons stared. And this time his voice found no echo.
“Well, Doctor,” said James Glieve, stuffing his handkerchief back into his pocket, “I suppose I—” he broke off. “This is a most respectable firm of solicitors,” he remarked suddenly and almost fiercely. “We’d never dream of stooping to anything approaching fraud.”
“Not dream of it,” echoed Henry.
“Of course not,” said Doctor Hilary heartily. “But this——”