‘The will was executed ten days ago.’

‘It was?  And what’s he left me?’

‘Seven thousand pounds—­less legacy duty.’

‘And thirty thousand to Jane?’

‘Just so.’

Joseph drew in his breath; his teeth ground together for a moment; his eyes grew very wide.  With a smile Scawthorne proceeded to explain that Jane’s trustees were Mr. Percival, senior, and his son.  Should she die unmarried before attaining her twenty-first birthday, the money bequeathed to her was to be distributed among certain charities.

‘It’s my belief there’s a crank in the old fellow,’ exclaimed Joseph.  ’Is he really such a fool as to think Jane won’t use the money for herself?  And what about Kirkwood?  I tell you what it is; he’s a deep fellow, is Kirkwood.  I wish you knew him.’

Scawthorne confessed that he had the same wish, but added that there was no chance of its being realised; prudence forbade any move in that direction.

‘If he marries her,’ questioned Joseph, ‘will the money be his?’

’No; it will be settled on her.  But it comes to very much the same thing; there’s to be no restraint on her discretion in using it.’

’She might give her affectionate parent a hundred or so now and then, if she chose?’

‘If she chose.’

Scawthorne began a detailed inquiry into the humanitarian projects of which Joseph had given but a rude and contemptuous explanation.  The finer qualities of his mind enabled him to see the matter in quite a different light from that in which it presented itself to Jane’s father; he had once or twice had an opportunity of observing Michael Snowdon at the office, and could realise in a measure the character which directed its energies to such an ideal aim.  Concerning Jane he asked many questions; then the conversation turned once more to Sidney Kirkwood.

‘I wish he’d married his old sweetheart,’ observed Joseph, watching the other’s face.

‘Who was that?’

‘A girl called Clara Hewett.’

Their looks met.  Scawthorne, in spite of habitual self-command, betrayed an extreme surprise.

‘I wonder what’s become of her?’ continued Joseph, still observing his companion, and speaking with unmistakable significance.

‘Just tell me something about this,’ said Scawthorne peremptorily.

Joseph complied, and ended his story with a few more hints.

’I never saw her myself—­at least I can’t be sure that I did.  There was somebody of the same name—­Clara—­a friend of Polkenhorne’s wife.’

Scawthorne appeared to pay no attention; he mused with a wrinkled brow.

‘If only I could put something between Kirkwood and the girl,’ remarked Joseph, as if absently.  ’I shouldn’t wonder if it could be made worth some one’s while to give a bit of help that way.  Don’t you think so?’

In the tone of one turning to a different subject, Scawthorne asked suddenly: