"I cannot but think," she said, "that Stagholme will be in better hands now. Of course dear Jem was very nice, and all that--a dear, good boy.

But do you not think that Arthur is more suited to the position in some ways?"

"Perhaps he is," allowed Mrs. Agar, with ill-concealed pleasure.

"He is," continued Sister Cecilia, with a broader brush, "so refined, so gentlemanly, so ideal a country squire."

And after that she had no difficulty in supplying herself with information.

CHAPTER XIII

ON THIN ICE

Treason doth never prosper. What's the reason?

For if it prosper, none dare call it treason.

Two days later a gentleman, whose clean-shaven face had a habit of beaming suddenly into a professional smile, was seated at a huge writing-table in his office in Gray's Inn, when a clerk announced to him the arrival of Mrs. Agar, who desired to see him at once.

Mr. Rigg beamed instantaneously, and the clerk, who knew his master, waited until the paroxysm had pa.s.sed. In the meantime Mrs. Agar was fuming in the waiting-room, wherein lay a copy of the _Times_ and nothing else. The window looked out upon the neatly kept but depressing garden, where five antiquated rooks looked in vain for sustenance. Mrs. Agar watched these intelligent birds, but all her soul was in her ears. She had already set Mr. Rigg down in her own mind as a stupid because, forsooth, he had dared to keep her waiting.

But the truth is that they are accustomed to ladies in Gray's Inn, especially ladies in deep mourning, with a chastely important air which seems to demand that advice and sympathy be carefully mingled. _Connues_, these ladies whose deep c.r.a.pe and quite exceptional bereavement plead (not always dumbly) for a special equity, home-made and superior to any law, and infer that the ordinary foes are in their case more than any gentleman would think of accepting.

The clerk presently pa.s.sed into an inner room and fetched therefrom a tin box, upon which were painted in dingy white the letters "J. E. M. A.,"

and underneath "Stagholme Estate." This the embryo lawyer carefully wiped with a duster, and set it up on some of its fellows immediately behind Mr. Rigg.

There was no hurry displayed in this scenic arrangement. Mr. Rigg made a practice of keeping ladies, especially those wearing c.r.a.pe, for a few minutes in the waiting-room. It calmed them down wonderfully, and introduced into their mental chambers a little legal atmosphere.

"Marks," he said, when that youth was taking his last look round at the _mise en scene_ before, as it were, raising the curtain, "eh--er--just go round to Corbyn's and get them to make up these pills."

At the mention of the medicinal term he beamed, as if to intimate that between themselves no secret need be observed that he, Mr. Rigg, was subject to the usual anatomical laws of mankind.

"And--er--just call at the fishmonger's as you come back and get a parcel for me, ordered this morning."

"Yes, sir," answered the faithful Marks, taking the prescription as if it were a will or a transfer.

He knew his part so well that he moved towards the door and opened it as if Mrs. Agar's existence and attendance in the waiting-room were matters of the utmost indifference.

"Marks!"

The door was open, so that the lawyer's voice carried well down the pa.s.sage.

"Yes, sir."

"I will see Mrs. Agar now."

And Mrs. Agar was shown in, all bustling with excitement.

"Mr. Rigg," she said, with some dignity, "has Mr. Glynde been here?"

The lawyer beamed again--literally all over his parchment-coloured face, except the eyes, which remained grave.

"When, my dear madam?" he asked, as he brought forward a chair.

"Well, lately--since my son's death."

The lawyer opened a large diary, and proceeded to trace back each day with his finger. It promised to be a question of time, this ascertaining whether Mr. Glynde had called within the last week. It was marvellous how well this man of deeds knew his clients. Mrs. Agar had never persevered in any inquiry or project that required time all through her life. Mr.

Rigg, behind his disarming smile, could see as far into a c.r.a.pe veil as any man.

"It must have been quite lately," said Mrs. Agar, leaning forward and trying visibly to read the diary.

Mr. Rigg turned back a few pages, as if to go over the ground a second time.

"Let me see!" he said leisurely. "What was the precise date of the--er--sad event?"

"Last Tuesday, the fourteenth."

"To be sure," reflected Mr. Rigg, fixing his eyes sadly on an engraving of London Bridge in the seventeenth century--a spot specially reserved for the sadder moments of probate and other testamentary work. "Very sad, very sad."

Then he rose with the mental brushing-away of unshed tears of a man who has never yet had time in life for idle lamentation. He turned towards the tin box, jingling his keys in a most practical and business-like way.

"And I presume," he said, "that you have come to consult me about the late Captain Agar's will?"

"Was there a will?" asked Mrs. Agar, with audible alarm. She had not studied "Every Man his own Lawyer" quite in vain, although most of the legal technicalities had conveyed nothing whatever to her mind. She did not notice that her question regarding Mr. Glynde had never been answered.

Mr. Rigg turned upon her beaming.

"I have no will," he answered. "I thought that perhaps you were aware of the existence of one."

Mrs. Agar's face lighted up.

"No," she said, with ill-concealed delight; "I am certain there is no will."

"Indeed! And why, my dear madam?"

"Well--oh, well, because Jem was just the sort of person to forget such matters. Besides, when he left England he was under age."

The lawyer was looking at her with his usual sympathetic smile spread over his face like an actor's make-up, but his eyes were very keen and clever.

"Of course," he observed, "he may have made one out there."

"I do not think that it is likely," replied the lady, whose small thoughts always came into the world in charge of a very obvious father in the shape of a wish. "There are no facilities out there--no lawyers."

"There are quite a number of lawyers in India," said Mr. Rigg, with sudden gravity. His face was only grave when he wished to fend off laughter.

"Well," persisted Mrs. Agar, "I am _sure_ Jem did not make a will."