Now he was in his room with time to think—­and there was strangely little to think of.  He had covered the ground already.  His father was dead.  When Bonbright uttered that sentence he had covered the episode completely.  That was it—­it was an episode.

A servant came to the door.

“Mr. Richmond wishes to speak with you on the phone, Mr. Bonbright,” the man said, and Bonbright walked to the instrument.  Richmond had been his father’s counsel for many years.

“Bonbright?” asked Mr. Richmond.

“Yes.”

“I have just had the news.  I am shocked.  It is a terrible thing.”

“Yes,” said Bonbright.

“I will come up at once—­if you can see me.  The death of a man like your father entails certain consequences which cannot be considered too soon.  May I come?”

“If you think it is necessary,” said Bonbright.

“It is necessary,” said Mr. Richmond.

In twenty minutes Richmond was announced and Bonbright went to meet him in the library.  Richmond extended his hand with the appropriate bearing for such an occasion.  His handshake was a perfect thing, studied, rehearsed, just as all his life was studied and rehearsed.  He had in stock a manner and a handshake and a demeanor which could be instantly taken off the shelf and used for any situation which might arise.  Richmond was a ready man, an able man.  On the whole, he was a good man, as men go, but cut and dried.

“Your father was a notable man,” he declared.  “He will be missed.”

Bonbright bowed.

“There will be a great deal for you to look after,” said the lawyer, “so I will be brief.  The mass of detail can wait—­until after—­er—­ until you have more leisure.”

“I think, Mr. Richmond, it is my mother you wish to see, not myself.  I thought you would understand my position.  I am surprised that you do not, since you have been so close to my father. ...  My father and I did not agree on matters which both of us considered vital.  There were differences which could not be abridged.  So I am here merely as his son, not as his successor in any way.”

“I don’t understand.”

“My father,” said Bonbright, with a trace of impatience, “disowned me, and—­disinherited, I believe, is the word—­disinherited me.”

“Oh no!  No!...  Indeed no!  You are laboring under a misapprehension. ...  You are mistaken.  I am glad to be able to relieve your mind on that point.  Nothing of the sort was done.  I am in a position to know. ...  I will admit your father discussed such action, but the matter went no farther.  Perhaps it was his intention to do as you say, but he put it off. ...  He seemed to have a prejudice against making a will.  As a matter of fact, he died intestate...”

“You mean—­”

“I mean that your father’s wealth—­and it was considerable, sir—­will be disposed of according to the statutes of Descent and Distribution.  In other words, having failed to dispose of his property by testament, the law directs its disposition.  With the exception of certain dower rights the whole vests in yourself.”