“Indeed?” said Canon Fittleworth. “No, I’m not a bit envious. The girl is an orphan, and I’m only too glad. Besides, after what you tell me, it’s perfectly natural. Romance has a strange sway over human affairs.” “But,” said the other slowly and deliberately, “unless Templeton made anything out of his last venture—which I doubt—it won’t be very much—not two thousand pounds.” “I see—I knew nothing of his affairs. But I always imagined him to be comfortably off.” “He should have been—but for my profession,” said the lawyer. “No, don’t blame me. I did the best I could for him, but he would not listen to reason. He got involved, some years ago, in an unfortunate and expensive lawsuit—a question of adjacent properties. I advised him, at the time, to compromise, but he was adamant. The case went against him, and he insisted upon carrying it to the Court of Appeal. The appeal was quashed—as I knew it would be. The costs were enormous—he insisted on having the best counsel—and he had to sell the whole of his property to pay them. The other man bought the property, and Templeton never forgave him.” “I remember hearing something about it at the time,” said the Canon. “So that was why he sold the little place in Buckinghamshire! What a pity! I suppose he was in the wrong, though?” “I didn’t say that,” replied the other dryly. “It was a case of law. And I admit that the law is not always just. Anyhow, he became a comparatively poor man. Besides, he spent what money he had on travelling. An explorer, out on his own, can’t expect to make money unless he discovers a gold-mine. And Templeton didn’t. Even if he had, he’d not the business capacity to make anything out of it. Poor chap! ‘De mortuis,’ eh?” “Quite so,” said the Canon. After a silence he remarked: “Are you going to tell the girl—now?” Anthony Crosby shook his head. “Not for the moment,” he replied. “I prefer to act professionally. As a matter of fact, I didn’t bring the will. It’s at my office, and I had to come straight down here from my home. Besides, there’s a sealed packet that Templeton handed me just before he sailed—only to be opened by me in the event of his death. It may contain a codicil, or even another will. So it wouldn’t be fair to tell her yet, you see. You won’t say anything about it, will you?” “Of course I won’t. Must you be going now?” For the lawyer had risen. “I must. I’m staying at the ‘Dolphin,’ and I’ve some letters to write. I shall see you to-morrow—at the funeral. I want to have a consultation with the police in the morning.” It was about ten o’clock that evening that the Canon, who had retired to his study after dinner, came into the drawing-room. His wife and daughter and Winnie Cotterill were seated there. “Who was with you in the study, dear?” asked his wife. “I heard Jane showing someone in.” “Major Renshaw,” replied her husband, seating himself. “He came in to have a smoke and discuss the events of the day.”