“The doctor gets through a sight of whisky these days,” remarked Mrs. Havergill, David’s housekeeper. “And a more abstemious gentleman, I’m sure I never did live with. Weeks a bottle of whisky ’ud last, unless he’d friends in. And now—gone like a flash, as you might say. Only, just you mind there’s not a word of this goes out of the ’ouse, Sarah, my girl. D’ ye hear?” Sarah, a whey-faced girl whose arms and legs were set on at uncertain angles, only nodded. She adored David with the unreasoning affection of a dog, and had he taken to washing in whisky instead of merely drinking it, she would have regarded his doing so as quite a right and proper thing. When the local papers had finished Mr. Mottisfont’s obituary notices and had lavished all their remaining stock of adjectives upon the funeral arrangements, they proceeded to interest themselves in the terms of his will. For once, old Mr. Mottisfont had done very much what was expected of him. Local charities benefited and old servants were remembered. Elizabeth Chantrey was left twenty-five thousand pounds, and everything else went to Edward. “To David Blake I leave my sincere respect, he having declined to receive a legacy.” David could almost see the old man grin as he wrote the words, could almost hear him chuckle, “Very well, my highfalutin young man—into the pillory with you.” The situation held a touch of sardonic humour beyond old Mr. Mottisfont’s contriving, and the iron of it rusted into David’s soul. Market Harford discussed the terms of the will with great interest. They began to speculate as to what Elizabeth Chantrey would do. When it transpired that she was going to remain on in the old house and be joined there by Edward and Mary, there was quite a little buzz of talk. “I assure you he made it a condition—a _secret_ condition,” said old Mrs. Codrington in her deep booming voice. “I have it from Mary herself. He made it a condition.” It was quite impossible to disbelieve a statement made with so much authority. Mrs. Codrington’s voice always stood her in good stead. It had a solidity which served to prop up any shaky fact. Miss Dobell, to whom she was speaking, sniffed, and felt a little out of it. She had been Agatha Mottisfont’s great friend, and as such she felt that she herself should have been the fountainhead of information. As soon as Mrs. Codrington had departed Miss Hester Dobell put on her outdoor things and went to call upon Mary Mottisfont. As it was a damp afternoon, she pinned up her skirts all round, and she was still unpinning them upon Mary’s doorstep, when the door opened. “Miss Chantrey is with her sister? Oh, indeed! That is very nice, very nice indeed. And Mrs. Mottisfont is seeing visitors, you say? Yes? Then I will just walk in—just walk in.”