There was no hurry displayed in this scenic arrangement. Mr. Rigg made a practice of keeping ladies, especially those wearing crape, 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 scène_ 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 passage. “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 crape 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?”