“But suppose I died before my uncle, then you would get nothing,” he objected.

“Ah, to be sure!  I had not forgotten that point,” said Mr. Jarvice.  “It is a contingency, of course, not very probable, but still we do right to consider it.”  He leaned back in his chair, and once again he fixed his eyes upon his visitor in a long and silent scrutiny.  When he spoke again, it was in a quieter voice than he had used.  One might almost have said that the real business of the interview was only just beginning.

“There is a way which will save me from loss.  You can insure your life as against your uncle’s, for a round sum—­say for a hundred thousand pounds.  You will make over the policy to me.  I shall pay the premiums, and so if anything were to happen to you I should be recouped.”

He never once removed his eyes from Hine’s face.  He sat with his elbows on the arms of his chair and his hands folded beneath his chin, quite still, but with a queer look of alertness upon his whole person.

“Yes, I see,” said Mr. Hine, as he turned the proposal over in his mind.

“Do you agree?” asked Jarvice.

“Yes,” said Walter Hine.

“Very well,” said Jarvice, all his old briskness returning.  “The sooner the arrangement is pushed through, the better for you, eh?  You will begin to touch the dibs.”  He laughed and Walter Hine chuckled.  “As to the insurance, you will have to get the company’s doctor’s certificate, and I should think it would be wise to go steady for a day or two, what?  You have been going the pace a bit, haven’t you?  You had better see your solicitor to-day.  As soon as the post-obit and the insurance policy are in this office, Mr. Hine, your first quarter’s income is paid into your bank.  I will have an agreement drawn, binding me on my side to pay you two thousand a year until your uncle’s death.”

Mr. Jarvice rose as if the interview was ended.  He moved some papers on his table, and added carelessly—­“You have a good solicitor, I suppose?”

“I haven’t a solicitor at all,” said Walter Hine, as he, too, rose.

“Oh, haven’t you?” said Mr. Jarvice, with all the appearance of surprise.  “Well, shall I give you an introduction to one?” He sat down, wrote a note, placed it in an envelope, which he left unfastened, and addressed it.  Then he handed the envelope to his client.

“Messrs. Jones and Stiles, Lincoln’s Inn Fields,” he said.  “But ask for Mr. Driver.  Tell him the whole proposal frankly, and ask his advice.”

“Driver?” said Hine, fingering the envelope.  “Hadn’t I ought to see one of the partners?”

Mr. Jarvice smiled.

“You have a business head, Mr. Hine, that’s very clear.  I’ll let you into a secret.  Mr. Driver is rather like yourself—­something of a rebel, Mr. Hine.  He came into disagreement with that very arbitrary body the Incorporated Law Society, so,—­well his name does not figure in the firm.  But he is Jones and Stiles.  Tell him everything!  If he advises you against my proposal, I shall even say take his advice.  Good-morning.”  Mr. Jarvice went to the door and opened it.