“What he feels to me, sir,” said Mr. Bennett, his strong northern accent betraying his annoyance, “is a matter of complete indifference. It is what I think of him that we are discussing. The leases of the Lakeside Property have been prepared for transfer. You are not losing much time, Mr. Groat.”
“No,” said Digby, after a moment’s thought. “The fact is, the people in the syndicate which is purchasing this property are very anxious to take possession. What is the earliest you can transfer?”
“Tomorrow,” was the reply. “I suppose”—he hesitated—“I suppose there is no question of the original heiress of the will—Dorothy Danton, I think her name is—turning up unexpectedly at the last moment?”
Digby smiled.
“Dorothy Danton, as you call her, has been food for the fishes these twenty years,” he said. “Don’t you worry your head about her.”
“Very good,” said Bennett, producing a number of papers from a black leather portfolio. “Your signature will be required on four of these, and the signature of your mother on the fifth.”
Digby frowned.
“My mother? I thought it was unnecessary that she should sign anything. I have her Power of Attorney.”
“Unfortunately the Power of Attorney is not sufficiently comprehensive to allow you to sign away certain royalty rights which descended to her through her father. They are not very valuable,” said the lawyer, “but they give her lien upon Kennett Hall, and in these circumstances, I think you had better not depend upon the Power of Attorney in case there is any dispute. Mr. Salter is a very shrewd man, and when the particulars of this transaction are brought to his notice, I think it is very likely that, feeling his responsibility as Mr. Danton’s late lawyer, he will enter a caveat.”
“What is a caveat?”
“Literally,” said Mr. Bennett, “a caveat emptor means ‘let the purchaser beware,’ and if a caveat is entered, your syndicate would not dare take the risk of paying you for the property, even though the caveat had no effect upon the estate which were transferred by virtue of your Power of Attorney.”
Digby tugged at his little moustache and stared out of the window for a long time.
“All right, I’ll get her signature.”
“She is in Paris, I understand.”
Digby shot a quick glance at him.
“How do you know?” he asked.
“I had to call at Mr. Salter’s office today,” he said, “to verify and agree to the list of securities which he handed me, and he mentioned the matter in passing.”
Digby growled something under his breath.
“Is it necessary that you should see Salter at all?” he asked with asperity.
“It is necessary that I should conduct my own business in my own way,” said Mr. Bennett with that acid smile of his.
Digby shot an angry glance at him and resolved that as soon as the business was completed, he would have little use for this uncompromising Scotsman. He hated the law and he hated lawyers, and he had been under the impression that Messrs. Bennett would be so overwhelmed with joy at the prospect of administering his estate, that they would agree to any suggestion he made. He had yet to learn that the complacent lawyer is a figure of fiction, and if he is found at all, it is in the character of the seedy broken-down old solicitor who hangs about Police Courts and who interviews his clients in the bar parlour of the nearest public-house.
“Very good,” he said, “give me the paper. I will get her to sign it.”
“Will you go to Paris?”
“Yes,” said Digby. “I’ll send it across by—er—aeroplane.”
The lawyer gathered up the papers and thrust them back into the wallet.
“Then I will see you at twelve o’clock tomorrow at the office of the Northern Land Syndicate.”
Digby nodded.
“Oh, by the way, Bennett”—he called the lawyer back—“I wish you to put this house in the market. I shall be spending a great deal of my time abroad and I have no use for this costly property. I want a quick sale, by the way.”
“A quick sale is a bad sale for the seller,” quoth the lawyer, “but I’ll do what I can for you, Mr. Groat. Do you want to dispose of the furniture?”
Digby nodded.
“And you have another house in the country?”
“That is not for sale,” said Digby shortly.
When the lawyer had gone he went up to his room and changed, taking his time over his toilet.
“Now,” he said as he drew on his gloves with a quiet smile, “I have to induce Eunice to be a good girl!”
XXX
Digby Groat made an unexpected journey to the west. A good general, even in the hour of his victory, prepares the way for retreat, and the possibility of Kennett Hall had long appealed to Digby as a likely refuge in a case of emergency.
Kennett Hall was one of the properties which his mother had inherited and which, owing to his failure to secure her signature, had not been prepared for transfer to the land syndicate. It had been the home of the Danton family for 140 years. A rambling, neglected house, standing in a big and gloomy park, it had been untenanted almost as long as Digby could remember.
He had sent his car down in the early morning, but he himself had gone by train. He disliked long motor journeys, and though he intended coming back by road, he preferred the quietude and smooth progress of the morning railway journey.
The car, covered with dust, was waiting for him at the railway station, and the few officials who constituted the station staff watched him go out of the gate without evidence of enthusiasm.
“That’s Groat who owns Kennett Hall, isn’t it?” said the porter to the aged stationmaster.
“That’s him,” was the reply. “It was a bad day for this country when that property came into old Jane Groat’s hands. A bad woman, that, if ever there was one.”
Unconscious of the criticisms of his mother, Digby was bowling
