"I'd forgotten about that," I admitted. "But, in any case, it isn't worth the paper it's written on."
"How do you make that out?"
"Go and consult a solicitor," I retorted, bluffing. "He'll tell you, in half a jiffy, that you've no legal claim. Now be off, and don't bother me with your nonsense any longer."
"If there's going to be any consulting of solicitors," he declared, "it's you that had best do it."
When one is dealing with an obstinate, pig-headed man, serious argument is of no use. I tried a more appealing way, but Millwood shook his head, and said I was wasting my breath. I remarked that I knew a well qualified and highly reasonable legal gentleman up in London who could give wise advice on the subject, and Millwood, after some discussion, went so far as to agree that he would accept Mr. Cartwright's decision. Millwood wrote out a copy of the letter I had been foolish enough to give to him some eighteen months or more earlier.
"Be a sport," he warned me. "Shew him this, and tell him everything in a truthful manner, and come back here, and tell me what he says. I'll look after the shop until you return."
My Quartermaster-Sergeant's brother was busy, and, in his office could give me no more than five minutes: he placed a watch on the table to make sure that this period was not exceeded. Before I had time to state the case fully or to produce the copy of the note, he stopped me.
"You must give up possession," he said, definitely, "at the end of the current week. Good-bye! Thorough April weather, isn't it?"
I could not help suspecting that my friends—little Mr. Cartwright included—were just now associated in a design to control and guide my career.