“Now, why should you jump to conclusions?” he cried. “Dr. MacGregor asked me to look up his patient. Am I a harbinger of disaster, like Mother Carey’s chickens?”
“Oh, parson,” she wailed, “I read it i’ yer face, an’ in t’ doctor’s. Don’t tell me all is well. I know better. Pray God I may die——”
“Hush, my poor girl, you know not what you say. Go to Mr. Pickering. He wants you.”
He knew the appeal would be successful. She darted off. Before Kitty, in turn, could question him, he escaped.
It was easier to run the gantlet of friendly inquirers outside. He telegraphed to the solicitor and sent a telegraphic remittance of the heavy fees demanded for the special license. Within two hours he had the satisfaction of knowing that the precious document was in the post and would reach him next morning.
Mr. Stockwell’s protests against Pickering’s testamentary designs were cut short by his client.
“Look here, Stockwell,” was the irritated comment, “you are an old friend of mine and I’d like this matter to remain in your hands, but if you say another word I’ll be forced to send for someone else.”
“If you put it that way——” began the lawyer.
“I do, most emphatically. Now, what is it to be? Yes or no?”
For answer the legal man squared some foolscap sheets on a small table and produced a stylographic pen.