“Please don’t have any trouble,” said Nan hastily.
“It won’t be any trouble,” grinned Len. “Baggs knows it won’t, as well as I do. You pull out, Baggs. When that will has been probated properly, and Miss Singer has the right, she’ll sign yore cheque, but not before.”
Baggs left, and as far as they could see, and hear him, he was whipping the horse and talking to himself.
“Was that the right thing to do?” asked Nan dubiously.
“Sure thing,” smiled Len. “You don’t own this property until the court says the will is all right. Oh, there probably won’t be any argument about it in this country, even if you signed the cheque now, but you can’t be too careful. And that fee is pretty stiff in a small case like this.”
“I want to do the right thing,” said Nan softly.
“That’s fine. You don’t mind if I call yuh Madge, do yuh? Out in this country we usually call folks by their first names, yuh know.”
“I don’t mind, Len.”
“That’s a lot better.”
“But my folks always called me Nan. My name is really Madge, but”—Nan thought quickly—“they called me Nan.”