ackmore?"

"Yes. You see, Mr. Marchmont and his partner had gone into the matter
and decided that there was nothing to be done. Then I happened to
mention the affair to Reuben Hornby, and he urged me to ask your advice
on the case."

"Like his impudence," growled Marchmont, "to meddle with my client."

"On which," continued Blackmore, "I spoke to Mr. Marchmont and he agreed
that it was worth while to take your opinion on the case, though he
warned me to cherish no hopes, as the affair was not really within your
specialty."

"So you understand," said Marchmont, "that we expect nothing. This is
quite a forlorn hope. We are taking your opinion as a mere formality, to
be able to say that we have left nothing untried."

"That is an encouraging start," Thorndyke remarked. "It leaves me
unembarrassed by the possibility of failure. But meanwhile you are
arousing in me a devouring curiosity as to the nature of the case. Is it
highly confidential? Because if not, I would mention that Jervis has now
joined me as my permanent colleague."

"It isn't confidential at all," said Marchmont. "The public are in full
possession of the facts, and we should be only too happy to put them in
still fuller possession, through the medium of the Probate Court, if we
could find a reasonable pretext. But we can't."

Here the waiter charged our table with the fussy rapidity of the
overdue.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, sir. Rather early, sir. Wouldn't like it
underdone, sir."

Marchmont inspected his plate critically and remarked:

"I sometimes suspect these oysters of being mussels; and I'll swear the
larks are sparrows."

"Let us hope so," said Thorndyke. "The lark is better employed 'at
Heaven's gate singing' than garnishing a beef-steak pudding. But you
were telling us about your case."

"So I was. Well it's just a matter of--ale or claret? Oh, claret, I
know. You despise the good old British John Barleycorn."

"He that drinks beer thinks beer," retorted Thorndyke. "But you were
saying that it is just a matter of--?"

"A matter of a perverse testator and an ill-drawn will. A peculiarly
irritating case, too, because the defective will replaces a perfectly
sound one, and the intentions of the testator were--er--were--excellent
ale, this. A little heady, perhaps, but sound. Better than your sour
French wine, Thorndyke--were--er--were quite obvious. What he evidently
desired was--mustard? Better have some mustard. No? Well, well! Eve