“I did not, sir.”
With a little cough and a little stately bow the old gentleman prepares to leave, with the cat’s glance at the bull terrier still more hostile and more scared.
“You will be so good, sir, as to call on us to-morrow morning, or to send some representative authorised by you. You must be aware that the law requires you either to accept the bequest or decline it.”
“I am criminal if I accept: I may be equally criminal if I reject it.”
“Again I fail to follow you, sir. But of course you are your own master; and in the event of your failure to call on us to-morrow morning you will be so good as to make us acquainted with your decision and intentions.”
“I will send you, Mr. Fanshawe,” replies Bertram.
The solicitor does not look everjoyed at the promise, but bows in silence, a very stiff and formal bow, and leaves the room without more words.
“I am afraid I was not very polite to him,” says Bertram, doubtfully, when the stuffs of the portière have fallen behind him.
“You certainly were not,” replies Fanshawe. “I think you could give hints to Whistler on the Gentle Art of making Enemies. But why did you talk all that rot? He only ridiculed you for it.”
“I merely said what I meant.”