“Who’s Smith?”
“Mortimer’s bulldog. Old Bennett is scared of him, and wants him kept in the stables, but Mortimer insists on letting him roam about the house. Well, they scrapped a goodish bit about that. And then there was the orchestrion. You remember the orchestrion?”
“I haven’t been down at Windles since I was a kid.”
“That’s right. I forgot that. Well, my pater had an orchestrion put in the drawing-room. One of these automatic things you switch on, you know. Makes a devil of a row. Bennett can’t stand it, and Mortimer insists on playing it all day. Well, they hotted up a goodish bit over that.”
“Well, I don’t see how all this affects you. If they want to scrap, why not let them?”
“Yes, but, you see, the most frightful thing has happened. At least, it hasn’t happened yet, but it may any day. Bennett’s talking about taking legal advice to see if he can’t induce Mortimer to cheese it by law as he can’t be stopped any other way. And the deuce of it is, your father’s Bennett’s legal representative over in England, and he’s sure to go to him.”
“Well, that’ll do the pater a bit of good. Legal fees.”
Eustace Hignett waved his arms despairingly at his cousin’s obtuseness.
“But don’t you see? If Bennett goes to your father about this binge, your father will get onto the fact that Windles has been let, and he’ll nose about and make enquiries, and the first thing that’ll happen will be that mother will get to hear of it, and then where shall I be?”
Sam pondered.
“Yes, there’s that,” he admitted.
“Well, now you see what a hole I’m in.”
“Yes, you are. What are you going to do about it?”
“You’re the only person who can help me.”
“What can I do?”
“Why, your father wants you to join the firm, doesn’t he? Well, for goodness sake, buck up and join it. Don’t waste a minute. Dash up to London by the next train, and sign on. Then, if Bennett does blow in for advice, you can fix it somehow that he sees you instead of your father, and it’ll be all right. You can easily work it. Get the office-boy or somebody to tell Bennett that your father’s engaged, but that you are on the spot. He won’t mind so long as he sees somebody in the firm.”
“But I don’t know anything about the law. What shall I say to him?”
“That’s all right. I’ve been studying it up a bit. As far as I can gather, this legal advice business is quite simple. Anything that isn’t a tort is a misdemeanour. You’ve simply got to tell old Bennett that in your opinion the whole thing looks jolly like a tort.”
“What’s the word again?”
“Tort.”
“What does it mean?”
“I don’t know. Probably nobody knows. But it’s a safe card to play. Tort. Don’t forget it.”
“Tort. Right ho!”
“Well, then, come along and pack your things. There’s a train to London in about an hour.”
They walked back to the hotel. Sam gulped once or twice.
“Oh, by the way,” he said, “Er—how is—er—Miss Bennett?”
“Oh, she’s all right.” Eustace Hignett hummed a gay air. Sam’s ready acquiescence in his scheme had relieved his apprehensive mind.
“Going strong?” said Sam, after a pause.
“Oh, absolutely. We’re quite good friends again now. No use being in the same house and not being on speaking terms. It’s rummy how the passage of time sort of changes a fellow’s point of view. Why, when she told me about her engagement, I congratulated her as cheerfully as dammit! And only a few weeks ago….”
“Her engagement!” exclaimed Sam, leaping like a stricken blanc-mange. “Her en-gug-gug-gagement!”
“To Bream Mortimer, you know,” said Eustace Hignett. “She got engaged to him the day before yesterday.”
CHAPTER NINE
The offices of the old-established firm of Marlowe, Thorpe, Prescott, Winslow and Appleby are in Ridgeway’s Inn, not far from Fleet Street. If you are a millionaire beset by blackmailers or anyone else to whose comfort the best legal advice is essential, and have decided to put your affairs in the hands of the ablest and discreetest firm in London, you proceed through a dark and grimy entry and up a dark and grimy flight of stairs; and, having felt your way along a dark and grimy passage, you come at length to a dark and grimy door. There is plenty of dirt in other parts of Ridgeway’s Inn, but nowhere is it so plentiful, so rich in alluvial deposits, as on the exterior of the offices of Marlowe, Thorpe, Prescott, Winslow and Appleby. As you tap on the topmost of the geological strata concealing the ground-glass of the door, a sense of relief and security floods your being. For in London grubbiness is the gauge of a lawyer’s respectability.