"It must have been quite lately," said Mrs. Agar, leaning forward and trying visibly to read the diary.
Mr. Rigg turned back a few pages, as if to go over the ground a second time.
"Let me see!" he said leisurely. "What was the precise date of the--er--sad event?"
"To be sure," reflected Mr. Rigg, fixing his eyes sadly on an engraving of London Bridge in the seventeenth century--a spot specially reserved for the sadder moments of probate and other testamentary work. "Very sad, very sad."
Then he rose with the mental brushing-away of unshed tears of a man who has never yet had time in life for idle lamentation. He turned towards the tin box, jingling his keys in a most practical and business-like way.
"And I presume," he said, "that you have come to consult me about the late Captain Agar's will?"
"Was there a will?" asked Mrs. Agar, with audible alarm. She had not studied "Every Man his own Lawyer" quite in vain, although most of the legal technicalities had conveyed nothing whatever to her mind. She did not notice that her question regarding Mr. Glynde had never been answered.
"I have no will," he answered. "I thought that perhaps you were aware of the existence of one."
"No," she said, with ill-concealed delight; "I am certain there is no will."
"Well--oh, well, because Jem was just the sort of person to forget such matters. Besides, when he left England he was under age."
The lawyer was looking at her with his usual sympathetic smile spread over his face like an actor's make-up, but his eyes were very keen and clever.
"Of course," he observed, "he may have made one out there."
"I do not think that it is likely," replied the lady, whose small thoughts always came into the world in charge of a very obvious father in the shape of a wish. "There are no facilities out there--no lawyers."
"There are quite a number of lawyers in India," said Mr. Rigg, with sudden gravity. His face was only grave when he wished to fend off laughter.
"Well," persisted Mrs. Agar, "I am _sure_ Jem did not make a will."
Mr. Rigg bowed and resumed his seat. He took up a penholder and smiled, presumably at his own sunny thoughts.
Mrs. Agar was one of those fatuous ladies who think themselves capable of tricking a professional man out of his fee. She had a vague notion that if one asks a lawyer a question the price of his answer is at least six shillings and eightpence. Up to this point in the interview she was serenely conscious of having eluded the fee.