“I see no objection,” she rejoined; “but you know what my father is:  his horror, I mean, of what he calls ‘cadging for advice gratis.’”

“Oh, but he need have no scruples on that score.  Doctor Thorndyke wants to see the will because the case interests him.  He is an enthusiast, you know, and he put the request as a personal favour to himself.”

“That is very nice and delicate of him, and I will explain the position to my father.  If he is willing for Doctor Thorndyke to see the copy, I will send or bring it over this evening.  Have we finished?”

I regretfully admitted that we had, and, when I had paid the modest reckoning, we sallied forth, turning back with one accord into Great Russell Street to avoid the noise and bustle of the larger thoroughfare.

“What sort of man was your uncle?” I asked presently, as we walked along the quiet, dignified street.  And then I added hastily:  “I hope you don’t think me inquisitive, but, to my mind, he presents himself as a kind of mysterious abstraction; the unknown quantity of a legal problem.”

“My Uncle John,” she answered reflectively, “was a very peculiar man, rather obstinate, very self-willed, what people call ‘masterful,’ and decidedly wrong-headed and unreasonable.”

“That is certainly the impression that the terms of his will convey,” I said.

“Yes; and not the will only.  There was the absurd allowance that he made my father.  That was a ridiculous arrangement, and very unfair, too.  He ought to have divided up the property as my grandfather intended.  And yet he was by no means ungenerous, only he would have his own way, and his own way was very commonly the wrong way.

“I remember,” she continued, after a short pause, “a very odd instance of his wrong-headedness and obstinacy.  It was a small matter, but very typical of him.  He had in his collection a beautiful little ring of the eighteenth dynasty.  It was said to have belonged to Queen Ti, the mother of our friend Amenhotep the Fourth; but I don’t think that could have been so, because the device on it was the Eye of Osiris, and Ti, as you know, was an Aten-worshipper.  However, it was a very charming ring, and Uncle John, who had a queer sort of devotion to the mystical Eye of Osiris, commissioned a very clever goldsmith to make two exact copies of it, one for himself and one for me.  The goldsmith naturally wanted to take the measurements of our fingers, but this Uncle John would not hear of; the rings were to be exact copies, and an exact copy must be the same size as the original.  You can imagine the result; my ring was so loose that I couldn’t keep it on my finger, and Uncle John’s was so tight that, though he did manage to get it on, he was never able to get it off again.  And it was only the circumstance that his left hand was decidedly smaller than his right that made it possible for him to wear it at all.”

“So you never wore your copy?”