“And about the old man—the ancient one—is he living?”
“Yes. He is nearly ninety-five.”
“Ninety-five. He can’t last much longer. I came home partly to look after things. Because, although the estate goes to Algernon’s son—deuced bad luck for me that Algernon did have a son—there’s the accumulations. I remembered them one evening out there, and the thought went through me like a knife that he was probably dead, and the accumulations divided, and my share gone. So I bundled home as fast as I could.”
“No—so far you are all right. For he’s hearty and strong, and the accumulations are still rolling up, I suppose. What will become of them no one knows.”
“I see. Well, I must make the acquaintance of Algernon’s son.”
“And about this great Firm of yours?”
“Well, it’s a—as I said—a great Firm.”
“Quite so. It must be, with Fred Campaigne at the head of it.”
“Never mind the Firm, but tell me about this astonishing profession of yours.”
The Professor smiled.