“I’m awfully sorry I intruded,” she laughed. “I thought you’d finished.” And with a sweet smile to me she closed the door and again left us.
How very dainty she looked; how exquisite was her figure! Surely her grace was perfect.
“Really,” my companion said, “I don’t know what I’d do without Asta. She’s all I have in the world, and she’s a perfect marvel of discretion and diplomacy.”
“She’s indeed very charming,” I said, perfectly frankly.
“I’m glad you find her so. She has plenty of admirers, I can assure you. And I fear they are spoiling her. But as I was saying, Mr Kemball,” he went on, “I hope we now understand each other perfectly. Poor Arnold was such a dear and intimate friend of mine, and we were equally interested in so many financial schemes that it has puzzled me greatly that he should have sought an obscure burial as he has done, and that his affairs are not in the hands of some responsible lawyer. Did he mention anything to you concerning the terms of his will?”
“He never breathed a word regarding it. Indeed, I have no idea whether he had made one.”
“Ah!” sighed my companion; “so like poor Arnold. He always was fond of postponing till to-morrow what could be done to-day. His will—if he made one—would be interesting, no doubt, for his estate must be pretty considerable. He was a wealthy man.”
I recollected the incident of the burning of the banknotes, and that set me pondering.
“Do you anticipate that he made a will?” I asked. “I think not,” was Shaw’s answer. “He had a strong aversion to making a will, I know, because he feared that after his death the truth might be revealed.”
“The truth concerning what?”