The next minute he had heard a somewhat romantic, if not hysterical, version of the facts of the case, and he was perusing the original documents.  By chance he read first the letter about the Zacatecas shares.  That Mathew Moze had made a will without his aid was a shock; that Mathew Moze had invested money without his advice was another shock quite as severe.  But he knew the status of the Great Mexican Oil Company, and his countenance lighted as he realised the rich immensity of the business of proving the will and devolving the estate; his costs would run to the most agreeable figures.  As soon as he glanced at the testament which Mr. Cowl had found, he muttered, with satisfaction and disdain: 

“H’m!  He made this himself.”

And he gazed at it compassionately, as a cabinetmaker might gaze at a piece of amateur fretwork.

Standing, he read it slowly and with extreme care.  And when he had finished he casually remarked, in the classic legal phrase: 

“It isn’t worth the paper it’s written on.”

Then he sat down again, and his neat paunch resumed its niche between his legs.  He knew that he had made a tremendous effect.

“But—­but——­” Miss Ingate began.

“Not worth the paper it’s written on,” he repeated.  “There is only one witness, and there ought to be two, and even the one witness is a bad one—­Aguilar, because he profits under the will.  He would have to give up his legacy before his attestation could count, and even then it would be no good alone.  Mr. Moze has not even expressly revoked the old will.  If there hadn’t been a previous will, and if Aguilar was a thoroughly reliable man, and if the family had wished to uphold the new will, I dare say the Court might have pronounced for it.  But under the circumstances it hasn’t the ghost of a chance.”

“But won’t the National Reformation Society make trouble?” demanded Miss Ingate faintly.

“Let ’em try!” said Mr. Foulger, who wished that the National Reformation Society would indeed try.

Even as he articulated the words, he was aware of Audrey coming towards him from the direction of the door; he was aware of her black frock and of her white face, with its bulging forehead and its deliciously insignificant nose.  She held out her hand.

“You are a dear!” she whispered.

Her lips seemed to aim uncertainly for his face.  Did they just touch, with exquisite contact, his bristly chin, or was it a divine illusion? ...  She blushed in a very marked manner.  He blinked, and his happy blinking seemed to say:  “Only wills drawn by me are genuine....  Didn’t I tell you Mr. Moze was not a man of business?”

Audrey ran to Miss Ingate.

Mr. Foulger, suddenly ashamed, and determined to be a lawyer, said sharply: 

“Has Mrs. Moze made a will?”

“Mother made a will?  Oh no!”

“Then she should make one at once, in your favour, of course.  No time should be lost.”