Leslie Frankfort was breakfasting with his brother one morning in his little Mayfair house. Jack Frankfort was a rising young solicitor, and a member of that firm which at the moment was acting for Sir John Standerton.
“By the way,” said Jack Frankfort, “I am going to see an old friend of yours this afternoon.”
“Who is my old friend?”
“Old Standerton.”
“Gilbert?”
Jack Frankfort smiled.
“No, Gilbert’s terrible uncle; we are acting for him just now.”
“What is the object of the visit?”
“A will, my boy; we are going to make a will.”
“I wonder how many wills the old man has made?” mused Leslie. “Poor Gilbert!”
“Why poor Gilbert?” asked the other, helping himself to the marmalade.
“Why, he was his uncle’s heir for about ten minutes.”
Jack grinned.
“Everybody is old Standerton’s heir for ten minutes,” he said.
“I verily believe he has endowed every hospital, every dogs’ home, every cats’ home, every freakish institution that the world has ever heard of, in the course of the last twenty years, and he is making another will today.”
“Put in a good word for Gilbert,” said Leslie with a smile.
The other growled.
“There is not a chance of putting in a good word for anybody. Old Tomlins, who acted for him last, said that the greater difficulty in making a will for the old beggar is to finish one before the old man has thought out another. Anyway, he is keen on a will just now, and I am going down to see him. Come along?”
“You know the old gentleman?”
“Not on your life,” said the other hastily. “I know him indeed, and he knows me! He knows I am a pal of Gilbert’s. I stayed once with him for about two days. For the Lord’s sake do not confess that you are my brother, or he will find another firm of solicitors.”
“I do not usually boast of my relationship with you,” said Jack.
“You are an offensive devil,” said the other admiringly. “But I suppose you have to be, being a solicitor.”
Jack Frankfort journeyed down to Huntingdon that afternoon in the company of a pleasant man, with whom he found himself in conversation without any of that awkwardness of introductions which makes the average English passenger so impossible.
This gentleman had evidently been in all parts of the world, and knew a great many people whom Jack knew. He chatted interestingly for an hour on the strange places of the earth, and when the train drew up at the little station at which Mr. Frankfort was alighting, the other accompanied him.
“What an extraordinary coincidence,” said the stranger heartily. “I am getting out here too. This is a rum little town, isn’t it?”
It might be described as “rum,” but it was very pleasant, and it contained one of the most comfortable hostelries in England.
The fellow-passengers found themselves placed in adjoining rooms.
Jack Frankfort had hoped to conclude his business before the evening and return to London by a late train, but he knew that it would be unwise to depend upon the old man’s expedition.
As a matter of fact, he had hardly been in the hotel a quarter of an hour before he received an intimation from The Residency that Sir John could not be seen until ten o’clock that evening.
“That settles all idea of going back to London,” said Jack despairingly.
He met his fellow-passenger at dinner.
Though he was not particularly well acquainted with the habits of Sir John, he knew that one of his fads was to dine late, and since he had no desire to spend a hungry evening, he advanced the normal dinner hour of the little hotel by thirty minutes.
He explained this apologetically to the comfortable man who sat opposite him, as they discussed a perfectly roasted capon.
“It suits me very well,” said the other, “I have a lot of work to do in the neighbourhood. You see,” he explained, “I am the proprietor of the Safe Agency.”
“Safe Agency,” repeated the other wonderingly.
The man nodded.
“It seems a queer business, but it is a fairly extensive one,” he said. “We deal principally in safes and strong rooms, secondhand or new. We have a pretty large establishment in London; but I am not going to overstep the bounds of politeness”—he smiled—“and try to sell you some of my stock.”
Frankfort was amused.
“Safe Agency,” he said; “one never realises that there can be money in that sort of thing.”
“One cannot realise that there is money in any branch of commerce,” said the other. “The moneymaking concerns which appeal are those where one sees brains being turned into actual cash.”
“Such as—?”
“Such as a lawyer’s business,” smiled the other. “Oh, yes, I know you are a lawyer, you are the type, and I should have known your trade if I had not seen your dispatch case, and then your name.”
Jack Frankfort laughed.
“You are sharp enough to be a lawyer yourself,” he suggested.
“You are paying yourself a compliment,” said the other.
Later, in the High Street, when he was calling a fly to drive him to The Residency, Jack noticed a big covered motor lorry, bearing only the simple inscription on its side: “The St. Bride’s Safe Company.”
He saw also his pleasant companion speaking earnestly with the black-bearded chauffeur.
A little later the lorry moved on through the narrow streets of the town and took the London Road.
Jack Frankfort had no time to speculate upon the opportunities for safe selling which the little town offered, for five minutes later he was in Sir John Standerton’s study.
The old General was of the type which is frequently depicted in humorous papers. He was stout and red of face, and wore a close-cut strip of white whisker, which ended abruptly below his ear, and was continued in a wild streak of white moustache across his face. He was bald, save for a little fringe of white hair which ran from temple to temple via the occiput, and his conversation might be described as a succession
