Leslie Frankfort was breakfasting with his brother one morning in his little Mayfair house. Jack Frankfort was a rising young solicitor, and a member of that firm which at the moment was acting for Sir John Standerton. “By the way,” said Jack Frankfort, “I am going to see an old friend of yours this afternoon.” “Who is my old friend?” “Old Standerton.” “Gilbert?” Jack Frankfort smiled. “No, Gilbert’s terrible uncle; we are acting for him just now.” “What is the object of the visit?” “A will, my boy; we are going to make a will.” “I wonder how many wills the old man has made?” mused Leslie. “Poor Gilbert!” “Why poor Gilbert?” asked the other, helping himself to the marmalade. “Why, he was his uncle’s heir for about ten minutes.” Jack grinned. “Everybody is old Standerton’s heir for ten minutes,” he said. “I verily believe he has endowed every hospital, every dog’s home, every cat’s home, every freakish institution that the world has ever heard of, in the course of the last twenty years, and he is making another will to-day.” “Put in a good word for Gilbert,” said Leslie with a smile. The other growled. “There is not a chance of putting in a good word for anybody. Old Tomlins, who acted for him last, said that the greater difficulty in making a will for the old beggar is to finish one before the old man has thought out another. Anyway, he is keen on a will just now, and I am going down to see him. Come along?” “You know the old gentleman?” “Not on your life,” said the other hastily. “I know him indeed, and he knows me! He knows I am a pal of Gilbert’s. I stayed once with him for about two days. For the Lord’s sake do not confess that you are my brother, or he will find another firm of solicitors.” “I do not usually boast of my relationship with you,” said Jack. “You are an offensive devil,” said the other admiringly. “But I suppose you have to be, being a solicitor.” Jack Frankfort journeyed down to Huntingdon that afternoon in the company of a pleasant man, with whom he found himself in conversation without any of that awkwardness of introductions which makes the average English passenger so impossible. This gentleman had evidently been in all parts of the world, and knew a great many people whom Jack knew. He chatted interestingly for an hour on the strange places of the earth, and when the train drew up at the little station at which Mr. Frankfort was alighting, the other accompanied him. “What an extraordinary coincidence,” said the stranger heartily. “I am getting out here too. This is a rum little town, isn’t it?” It might be described as “rum,” but it was very pleasant, and it contained one of the most comfortable hostelries in England. The fellow-passengers found themselves placed in adjoining rooms. Jack Frankfort had hoped to conclude his business before the evening and return to London by a late train, but he knew that it would be unwise to depend upon the old man’s expedition.