“Very well,” retorted Brent testily. “I shall merely arrange the papers—”
Landis shook his head, smiling. “Just what I don’t want you to do, Mr. Brent! But we’ll look the desk over now. Then you may do as you please.”
He caught Bernard’s eye. With a word of apology to Miss Mount, Bernard left her and walked past the ruffled lawyer to the desk, which Landis had already approached.
Each taking an end, they examined the papers and documents on the polished surface and studied the contents of the drawers, while Brent looked on in high dudgeon. They found a few unanswered business letters on top of the desk, drawers full of answered letters in files—and innumerable prospectuses. One drawer contained pipes, tobacco and cigars; another, odds and ends of personal possessions. The center drawer held a huge checkbook and nothing else.
“Who typed his letters for him since he retired?” Bernard demanded suddenly.
Miss Mount smiled a wintry smile.
“Most of his correspondence consisted of writing checks and enclosing them in envelopes,” she said. “He wrote very briefly and in long hand, as a rule. When there was a longer letter or a document to be written, I typed it for him.”
“All right,” nodded Bernard. “Now for the wing.”
“There you are, Mr. Brent,” Landis smiled. “Sorry to delay you!”
Brent became genial.