The desk contained a considerable number of papers, almost all connected with business, and in a foreign language—Portuguese—which Herring could not read.
Mr. Battishill leaned back in his chair and looked before him out of the hall window, lost in his meditations. He muttered something impatiently.
'I beg your pardon,' said Herring, looking up. 'Did you address me?'
'I?—no,' answered Mr. Battishill. 'I merely said, Damn old Tramplara!'
Herring resumed his examination.
'The scoundrel has his claws in my neck, and the mischief is he is dragging more than myself down. There is poor Cicely as well.'
'Can you decipher these letters?' asked Herring, holding out a couple of papers to the old gentleman; 'they are written either in Spanish, Italian, or Portuguese.'
'I cannot say. My knowledge is limited. "Ignorance is the curse of God, knowledge the wing whereby we fly to heaven." I once read Latin, but that was long ago. I may remember a few words of French. "Dieu et mon droit," that means "God and my right." "Honi soit qui mal y pense," that means something about the Duchess of Gloucester's garter. No, this is Chinese to me. "There is no darkness but ignorance."'
'Hold!' exclaimed Herring; 'here is his will. Shall we look at it?'
'By all means. No other document is so likely to help you to what you want to discover. Give it to me.'