“Yes. I fear it is urgent,” replied my client’s son. “My father had a stroke about three days ago on his return from London. The Doctor declares it to be a serious matter. Of course I won’t ask you to come over to Duddington tonight, but you could get to Stamford tonight, and sleep at the Cross Keys. I’ll call for you in the car at nine tomorrow morning. I’d be so grateful if you can do this. Will you?”
I hesitated.
“You can catch a convenient train from King’s Cross tonight. Change at Essendine. It takes about three hours,” he added.
“Is your father in grave danger?” I asked.
“He was, but he seems a trifle better now. He is asleep, and the Doctor says he is not to be awakened. So we’ll see how he is in the morning.”
“Did he express a wish to make the codicil?” I asked.
“Yes. He wants to leave the Gorselands to my brother Alfred, instead of to mother,” was the reply.
“Very well,” I said, rather reluctantly, for as a matter of fact I had been looking forward to dining with old Mr. Humphreys that evening. “I’ll meet you at the Cross Keys at Stamford in the morning. Good-bye, Mr. Pearson.”
Having put down the receiver I resolved to ring up Hartley Humphreys at the Carlton, and did so.
“I’m sorry you’re called away,” the old financier replied. “But in any case come along now, and have a cocktail. You won’t leave London till after dinner.”