“By the way, Mr. Fordingbridge,” he asked, glancing round to see that there was no one within earshot, “there's just one point I'd like you to clear up for me, if you don't mind.” Paul Fordingbridge stared at him with an emotionless face. “Very glad to do anything for you,” he said, without betraying anything in his tone. “It's nothing much,” Sir Clinton assured him. “All I want is to be clear about this Foxhills estate and its trimmings. Your nephew owns it at present?” “If I have a surviving nephew, certainly. I can offer no opinion on that point, you understand.” “Naturally,” Sir Clinton acquiesced. “Now, suppose your nephew's death were proved, who are the next heirs? That's what I'd like you to tell me, if you don't mind. I could get it hunted up at Somerset House, but if you'll save me the trouble it will be a help.” “Failing my nephew, it would go to my niece, Mrs. Fleetwood.” “And if anything happened to her?” “It falls to me in that case.” “And if you weren't there to take it by then?” “My sister would get it.” “There's no one else? Young Fleetwood, for instance, couldn't step in front of you owing to his having married your niece?” “No,” Paul Fordingbridge answered at once. “The will took account of seven lives, and I suppose that was sufficient in the ordinary way. My sister, if she gets it, can leave it to anyone she chooses.” Sir Clinton seemed thoughtful. It was only after a slight pause that he took up a fresh line of questions. “Can you tell me anything about the present management of the thing? You have a power of attorney, I believe; but I suppose you leave matters very much in the hands of lawyers?” Paul Fordingbridge shook his head. “I'm afraid I'm no great believer in lawyers. One's better to look after things oneself. I'm not a busy man, and it's an occupation for me. Everything goes through my hands.” “Must be rather a business,” Sir Clinton criticised. “But I suppose you do as I would myself—get a firm of auditors to keep your books for you.” Paul Fordingbridge seemed slightly nettled at the suggestion. “No. Do you suppose I can't draw up a balance-sheet once a year? I'm not quite incompetent.” It was evident that Sir Clinton's suggestion had touched him in his vanity, for his tone showed more than a trace of pique. The chief constable hastened to smooth matters over. “I envy you, Mr. Fordingbridge. I never had much of a head for figures myself, and I shouldn't care to have that kind of work thrust on my hands.” “Oh, I manage very well,” Paul Fordingbridge answered coldly. “Is there anything else you'd like to know?” Sir Clinton reflected for a moment before replying. “I think that's everything. Oh, there's one other matter which you may know about, perhaps. When does Mrs. Fleetwood expect her lawyer to turn up?”