“And the rest to the girls. That’s what Brent said.”
“It is,” Bernard admitted, “though he didn’t mention Stimson. The fortune is about two million dollars less than Brent expected—somewhere around eight million in all, which goes to the two girls after the bequests are deducted. But what’s a couple of million dollars!”
“What’s up your sleeve?” demanded Landis.
“Just this. Brent has lost a lot of money lately, backing some sort of patent fuel-saving device. Two million dollars are missing. He admits it. He gets fifty thousand. He is trustee, which means a big percentage on the capital right away and a slice of the income until the money goes to the girls, two and four years hence. Pretty soft for Brent, eh?”
Landis whistled.
“Where was he Saturday night?”
“He was out for a stroll, don’t you remember?”
“Why, bless me, so he was!” said Landis in a very fair imitation of the stout little lawyer’s pompous manner.
“That’s that,” said Bernard. “The rest is interesting, too. I called on an old acquaintance who helps publish a scurrilous little affair called ‘Chitter—Chatter.’ He knows everybody and everything a self-respecting citizen ought not to know. Allen, he says, is a poor but popular young man about town who is credited with the intention of marrying money. This fellow knows about his affair with Anita, though he didn’t mention their marriage—knows that he’s out there now. That’s common gossip, it seems. He’d get that from the papers.”
“Ask him about Russell, too?”