"And the will is dated?"
"Just three weeks ago."
"Within the first week of this visit here. He must have taken an inordinate fancy to my boy."
Mr. Bryanstone smiled to himself softly with lowered eyelids, as he folded up the will—a holograph will upon a single sheet of Bath post—witnessed by two of the Mount Royal servants. The family solicitor knew all about Angus Hamleigh's engagement to Miss Courtenay—had even received instructions for drawing the marriage settlement—but he was too much a man of the world to refer to that fact.
"Was not Mr. Hamleigh's father engaged to your mother?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Then don't you think that respect for your mother may have had some influence with Mr. Hamleigh when he made your son his heir?"
"I am not going to speculate about his motives. I only wish he had left his money to an asylum for idiots—or to his cousins"—with a glance at the somewhat vacuous countenances of the dead man's kindred, "or that I were at liberty to decline his gift—which I should do, flatly."
"This sounds as if you were prejudiced against my lamented friend. I thought you liked him."
"So I did," stammered Leonard, "but not well enough to give him the right to patronise me with his d—d legacy."