"Oh, I think there is sufficient life left in you to stand a trifle more strain," was Carrington's flippant observation, as he resumed his seat at a very businesslike desk. "I can't guess in any way what can bother you."
"No one, but the wearer, knows where the shoe pinches," quoted Hendle grimly.
"Quite so, and no one ever will know unless the wearer explains the bad fit, my friend. Bothered? You! With beeves and lands and money, and the promise of a beautiful and desirable damsel to be your wife."
"That's just it," said the visitor, seizing the opening. "I may lose all these things, Carrington."
The barrister wheeled his chair round to stare, and his keen dark face was alive with curiosity. "Have you been outrunning the constable?" he asked; "has the lady changed her mind? Has----"
"You are wide of the mark. To put the matter in a nutshell, it's a will."
"This much. It exists and may disinherit me."
"Then he will have his rights, if he has a leg to stand on," said Carrington grimly. "Mallien struck me as a man who would go through fire and water for himself. Why did your father make a will in his favor?"
"He did not. The will was made one hundred years ago, by John Hendle, from whom Mallien and I are descended."
"One hundred years ago," echoed the barrister puzzled. "Then how comes it you have to do with it now?"
"Confound his zeal. But still I don't quite understand. Perhaps you will tell me the whole story from the beginning. I suppose you have come to ask my advice as a friend?"
"My best forensic lore is at your disposal. Well?"
Hendle at once began his explanation, and, as he proceeded, became much too restless to remain seated. Midway in the recital he started to his feet and began to pace the narrow limits of the office. Shading his eyes with his hand and drawing figures on the blotting paper, Carrington listened to the rather amazing story of Leigh's discovery, and when in possession of the facts looked rather skeptical. "I understand that you have not seen the will?"
"No. Leigh, as is natural with so untidy a man, has mislaid it."
"Humph!" Carrington threw down his pencil and leaned back with a doubtful look. "I think the vicar's wits must be wool-gathering. He has no enmity against you, I suppose?"