nk of sleep, struggling with the amazement,
the incredulity, the confusion of understanding caused by his father's
words, he betook himself to a familiar public-house, and there penned a
note to Scawthorne, requesting an interview as soon as possible. The
meeting took place that evening at the retreat behind Lincoln's Inn
Fields where the two had held colloquies on several occasions during
the last half-year. Scawthorne received with gravity what his
acquaintance had to communicate. Then he observed:

'The will was executed ten days ago.'

'It was? And what's he left me?'

'Seven thousand pounds--less legacy duty.'

'And thirty thousand to Jane?'

'Just so.'

Joseph drew in his breath; his teeth ground together for a moment; his
eyes grew very wide. With a smile Scawthorne proceeded to explain that
Jane's trustees were Mr. Percival, senior, and his son. Should she die
unmarried before attaining her twenty-first birthday, the money
bequeathed to her was to be distributed among certain charities.

'It's my belief there's a crank in the old fellow,' exclaimed Joseph.
'Is he really such a fool as to think Jane won't use the money for
herself? And what about Kirkwood? I tell you what it is; he's a deep
fellow, is Kirkwood. I wish you knew him.'

Scawthorne confessed that he had the same wish, but added that there
was no chance of its being realised; prudence forbade any move in that
direction.

'If he marries her,' questioned Joseph, 'will the money be his?'

'No; it will be settled on her. But it comes to very much the same
thing; there's to be no restraint on her discretion in using it.'

'She might give her affectionate parent a hundred or so now and then,
if she chose?'

'If she chose.'

Scawthorne began a detailed inquiry into the humanitarian projects of
which Joseph had given but a rude and contemptuous explanation. The
finer qualities of his mind enabled him to see the matter in quite a
different light from that in which it presented itself to Jane's
father; he had once or twice had an opportunity of observing Michael
Snowdon at the office, and could realise in a measure the character
which directed its energies to such an ideal aim. Concerning Jane he
asked many questions; then the conversation turned once more to Sidney
Kirkwood.

'I wish he'd married his old sweetheart,' observed Joseph, watching the
other's face.

'Who was that?'

'A girl called Clara Hewett.'

Their looks met. Scawthorne,