“Don’t talk to me of lawyers,” he said violently. “I know enough law to make a will they can’t upset. Don’t talk of ’em. Sharks and robbers. Worse than the doctors. Besides young Fenwick talks—tells his wife things—and she tells her sister. And what Mary Bowden knows, the town knows. Did I ever tell you how I found out? I suspected, but I wanted to be sure. So I sent for young Fenwick, and told him I wanted to make my will. So far, so good. I made it—or he did. And I left a couple of thousand pounds to Bessie Fenwick and a couple more to her sister Mary in memory of my old friendship with their father. And as soon as Master Fenwick had gone I put his morning’s work in the fire. Now how do I know he talked? This way. A week later I met Mary Bowden in the High Street, and I had the fright of my life. I declare I thought she’d ha’ kissed me. It was ‘I hope you are prudent to be out in this east wind, dear Mr. Mottisfont,’ and I must come and see them soon—and oh, Lord, what fools women are! Mary Bowden never could abide me till she thought I’d left her two thousand pounds.” “Fenwicks aren’t the only lawyers in the world,” suggested David. “Much obliged, I’m sure. I did go to one once to make a will—they say it’s sweet to play the fool sometimes—eh, David? Fool I was sure enough. I found a little mottled man, that sat blinking at me, and repeating my words, till I could have murdered him with his own office pen-knife. He called me Moral too, in stead of Morell. ‘Edward Moral Mottisfont,’ and I took occasion to inform him that I wasn’t moral, never had been moral, and never intended to be moral. I said he must be thinking of my nephew Edward, who was damn moral. Oh, Lord, here _is_ Edward. I could ha’ done without him.” The door opened as he was speaking, and young Edward Mottisfont came in. He was a slight, fair man with a well-shaped head, a straight nose, and as much chin as a great many other people. He wore _pince-nez_ because he was short-sighted, and high collars because he had a long neck. Both the _pince-nez_ and the collar had an intensely irritating effect upon old Mr. Edward Mottisfont. “If he hadn’t been for ever blinking at some bug that was just out of his sight, his eyes would have been as good as mine, and he might just as well keep his head in a butterfly net or a collecting box as where he does keep it. Not that I should have said that Edward _did_ keep his head.” “I think you flurry him, sir,” said David, “and——” “I know I do,” grinned Mr. Mottisfont. Young Edward Mottisfont came into the room and shut the door. Old Mr. Mottisfont watched him with black, malicious eyes. For as many years as Edward could remember anything, he could remember just that look upon his uncle’s face. It made him uneasy now, as it had made him uneasy when he was only five years old. Once when he was fifteen he said to David Blake: “You cheek him, David, and he likes you for it. How on earth do you manage it? Doesn’t he make you feel beastly?”