Fanny’s heart sank. She could conceive no other explanation of a simple burial save lack of means, or resentment in the survivors at the disposition made of his property by the deceased. When, on the morrow, Horace told her that his father had strictly charged Mr Barmby to have him buried in the simplest mode compatible with decency, she put it down to the old man’s excessive meanness. On this occasion she learnt the contents of Mr. Lord’s will, and having learnt them, got rid of Horace as soon as possible that she might astonish her sisters with the report. In the afternoon of that day, Beatrice had an appointment with Luckworth Crewe. She was to meet him at the office he had just taken in Farringdon Street, whence they would repair to a solicitor’s in the same neighbourhood, for the discussion of legal business connected with Miss. French’s enterprise. She climbed the staircase of a big building, and was directed to the right door by the sound of Crewe’s voice, loudly and jocularly discoursing. He stood with two men in the open doorway, and at the sight of Beatrice waved a hand to her. ‘Take your hook, you fellows; I have an engagement.’ The men, glancing at Miss. French facetiously, went their way. ‘How do, old chum? It’s all in a mess yet; hold your skirts together. Come along this way.’ Through glue-pots and shavings and an overpowering smell of paint, Beatrice followed to inspect the premises, which consisted of three rooms; one, very much the smallest, about ten feet square. Three workmen were busy, and one, fitting up shelves, whistled a melody with ear-piercing shrillness. ‘Stop that damned noise!’ shouted Crewe. ‘I’ve told you once already. Try it on again, my lad, and I’ll drop you down the well of the staircase--you’ve too much breath, you have.’ The other workmen laughed. It was evident that Crewe had made friends with them all. ‘Won’t be bad, when we get the decks cleared,’ he remarked to Beatrice. ‘Plenty of room to make twenty thousand a year or so.’ He checked himself, and asked in a subdued voice, ‘Seen anything of the Lords?’ Beatrice nodded with a smile. ‘And heard about the will. Have you?’ ‘No, I haven’t. Come into this little room.’ He closed the door behind them, and looked at his companion with curiosity, but without show of eagerness. ‘Well, it’s a joke,’ said Miss. French. ‘Is it? How?’ ‘Fanny’s that mad about it! She’d got it into her silly noddle that Horace Lord would drop in for a fortune at once. As it is, he gets nothing at all for two years, except what the Barmbys choose to give him. And if he marries before he’s four-and-twenty, he loses everything--every cent!’ Crewe whistled a bar of a street-melody, then burst into laughter. ‘That’s how the old joker has done them, is it? Quite right too. The lad doesn’t know his own mind yet. Let Fanny wait if she really wants him--and if she can keep hold of him. But what are the figures?’