“What’s the matter with him?” Landis inquired.
“Rumors, sir! Rumors! One hears that he traffics in liquor prescriptions! It has also been hinted that he misuses his calling in other ways—at a price! However, that is neither here nor there. The man has done his work and gone, I presume—”
“About the question of this will,” interrupted Bernard grimly. “Can you give me the names of the principal heirs, Mr. Brent, and any other large bequests? I’m talking about the will at present in force so far as you know. I suppose you drew it up, didn’t you?”
Wounded, visibly swelling and rather red in the face, Brent contrived to swallow his temper. “I did, sir! And I—I can give you an outline of the will,” he stammered.
Landis felt a touch on his arm and turned to find Graham at his elbow. In the eyes of the young lawyer he saw a twinkle of amusement and a whimsical plea. “Suppose,” Graham suggested at large, “that we all go into the library and sit down? I’d just as soon get away from the sight of Mr. Harrison’s body, myself!”
“Good idea,” said Landis. “What do you say, sir?”
“You’re in charge,” the older detective retorted.
By the time they were settled in front of the fire the metaphorical ice was firm again. Brent explained that the will, in force so far as he knew, left Harrison’s fortune jointly to his two daughters, Isabelle and Anita. It was left to them as a trust until they were twenty-five, at which times they would receive their share of the principal.
“How old are they now?” inquired Bernard.
“Isabelle is twenty-four, I think, and Anita twenty-one or twenty-two. They won’t suffer on the income in the meantime!” Brent concluded with heavy playfulness.