Half an hour later Mr Masters was shown into John Blunt’s room.

“I’m sorry I was engaged,” said John.  “A most important client.  Now, what can I do for you, Mr—­er—­Masters?”

“I wish to make my will.”

“By all means,” said John cordially.

“I have only one child, to whom I intend to leave all my money.”

“Ha!” said John, with a frown.  “This will be a lengthy and difficult business.”

“But you can do it?” asked Mr Masters anxiously.  “They told me at the hairdresser’s that Macnaughton, Macnaughton, Macnaughton, Macnaughton & Macnaughton was the cleverest firm in London.”

“We can do it,” said John simply, “but it will require all our care; and I think it would be best if I were to come and stay with you for the week-end.  We could go into it properly then.”

“Thank you,” said Mr Masters, clasping the other’s hand.  “I was just going to suggest it.  My motor-car is outside.  Let us go at once.”

“I will follow you in a moment,” said John, and pausing only to snatch a handful of money from the safe for incidental expenses, and to tell the boy that he would be back on Monday, he picked up the well-filled week-end bag which he always kept ready, and hurried after the other.

Inside the car Mr Masters was confidential.

“My daughter,” he said, “comes of age to-morrow.”

“Oh, it’s a daughter?” said John, in surprise.  “Is she pretty?”

“She is considered to be the prettiest girl in the county.”

“Really?” said John.  He thought a moment, and added, “Can we stop at a post-office?  I must send an important business telegram.”  He took out a form and wrote: 

“Macmacmacmacmac, London.  Shall not be back till Wednesday.—­Blunt.”

The car stopped and then sped on again.

“Amy has never been any trouble to me,” said Mr Masters, “but I am getting old now, and I would give a thousand pounds to see her happily married.”

“To whom would you give it,” asked John, whipping out his pocket-book.

“Tut, tut, a mere figure of speech.  But I would settle a hundred thousand pounds on her on the wedding-day.”

“Indeed?” said John thoughtfully.  “Can we stop at another post-office?” he added, bringing out his fountain-pen again.  He took out a second telegraph form and wrote: 

“Macmacmacmacmac, London.  Shall not be back till Friday.—­Blunt.”

The car dashed on again, and an hour later arrived it a commodious mansion standing in its own well-timbered grounds of upwards of several acres.  At the front-door a graceful figure was standing.

“My solicitor, dear, Mr Blunt,” said Mr Masters.

“It is very good of you to come all this way on my father’s business,” she said shyly.

“Not at all,” said John.  “A week or—­or a fortnight—­or—­” he looked at her again—­“or—­three weeks, and the thing is done.”