The evening wore on without any sign from Nevill’s Court, and I began to fear that Mr. Bellingham’s scruples had proved insurmountable. Not, I am afraid, that I was so much concerned for the copy of the will as for the possibility of a visit, no matter howsoever brief, from my fair employer; and when, on the stroke of half-past seven, the surgery door flew open with startling abruptness, my fears were allayed and my hopes shattered simultaneously. For it was Miss Oman who stalked in, holding out a blue foolscap envelope with a warlike air as if it were an ultimatum.
“I’ve brought you this from Mr. Bellingham,” she said. “There’s a note inside.”
“May I read the note, Miss Oman?” I asked.
“Bless the man!” she exclaimed. “What else would you do with it? Isn’t that what it’s brought for?”
I supposed it was; and, thanking her for her gracious permission, I glanced through the note—a few lines authorizing me to show the copy of the will to Dr. Thorndyke. When I looked up from the paper I found her eyes fixed on me with an expression critical and rather disapproving.
“You seem to be making yourself mighty agreeable in a certain quarter,” she remarked.
“I make myself universally agreeable. It is my nature to.”
“Ha!” she snorted.
“Don’t you find me rather agreeable?” I asked.
“Oily,” said Miss Oman. And then with a sour smile at the open notebooks, she remarked:
“You’ve got some work to do now; quite a change for you.”
“A delightful change, Miss Oman. ‘For Satan findeth’—but no doubt you are acquainted with the philosophical works of Dr. Watts?”
“If you are referring to ‘idle hands,’ ” she replied, “I’ll give you a bit of advice. Don’t you keep that hand idle any longer than is really necessary. I have my suspicions about that splint—oh, you know what I mean,” and before I had time to reply, she had taken advantage of the entrance of a couple of patients to whisk out of the surgery with the abruptness that had distinguished her arrival.
The evening consultations were considered to be over by half-past eight; at which time Adolphus was wont with exemplary punctuality to close the outer door of the surgery. Tonight he was not less prompt than usual; and having performed this, his last daily office, and turned down the surgery gas, he reported the fact and took his departure.
As his retreating footsteps died away and the slamming of the outer door announced his final disappearance, I sat up and stretched myself. The envelope containing the copy of the will lay on the table, and I considered it thoughtfully. It ought to be conveyed to Thorndyke with as little delay as possible, and, as it certainly could not be trusted out of my hands, it ought to be conveyed by me.
I looked at the notebooks. Nearly two hours’ work had made a considerable impression on the matter that I had to transcribe, but still, a great deal of the task yet remained to be done. However, I reflected, I could put in a couple of hours or more before going to bed and there would be an hour or two to spare in the morning. Finally I locked the notebooks, open as they were, in the writing-table drawer, and slipping the envelope into my pocket, set out for the Temple.
The soft chime of the Treasury clock was telling out, in confidential tones, the third quarter as I rapped with my stick on the forbidding “oak” of my friends’ chambers. There was no response, nor had I perceived any gleam of light from the windows as I approached, and I was considering the advisability of trying the laboratory on the next floor, when footsteps on the stone stairs and familiar voices gladdened my ear.
“Hallo, Berkeley!” said Thorndyke, “do we find you waiting like a Peri at the gates of Paradise? Polton is upstairs, you know, tinkering at one of his inventions. If you ever find the nest empty, you had better go up and bang at the laboratory door. He’s always there in the evenings.”
“I haven’t been waiting long,” said I, “and I was just thinking of rousing him up when you came.”
“That was right,” said Thorndyke, turning up the gas. “And what news do you bring? Do I see a blue envelope sticking out of your pocket?”
“You do.”
“Is it a copy of the will?” he asked.
I answered “yes,” and added that I had full permission to show it to him.
“What did I tell you?” exclaimed Jervis. “Didn’t I say that he would get the copy for us if it existed?”
“We admit the excellence of your prognosis,” said Thorndyke, “but there is no need to be boastful. Have you read through the document, Berkeley?”
“No, I haven’t taken it out of the envelope.”
“Then it will be equally new to us all, and we shall see if it tallies with your description.”
He placed three easy-chairs at a convenient distance from the light, and Jervis, watching him with a smile, remarked:
“Now Thorndyke is going to enjoy himself. To him, a perfectly unintelligible will is a thing of beauty and a joy forever; especially if associated with some kind of recondite knavery.”
“I don’t know,” said I, “that this will is particularly unintelligible. The mischief seems to be that it is rather too intelligible. However, here it is,” and I handed it over to Thorndyke.
“I suppose that we can depend on this copy,” said the latter, as he drew out the document and glanced at it. “Oh, yes,” he added, “I see it is copied by Godfrey Bellingham, compared with the original and certified correct. In
