"
With a muttered curse Henson entered the library. Littimer was seated
at a table, with a cigarette in his mouth, his brows drawn over a mass
of papers.
"Sit down and have a cigar," he said. "The fact is I am setting my
affairs in order--I am going to make a fresh will. If you hadn't come
down last night I should probably have sent for you. Now take my
bank-book and check those figures."
"Shall we be long?" Henson asked, anxiously.
Littimer tartly hoped that Henson could-spare him an hour. It was not
usual, he said, for a testator to be refused assistance from the chief
benefactor under his will. Henson apologized, with a sickly smile. He had
important business of a philanthropic kind in Moreton Wells, but he had
no doubt that it could wait for an hour. And then for the best part of
the morning he sat fuming politely, whilst Littimer chattered in the most
amiable fashion. Henson had rarely seen him in a better mood. It was
quite obvious that he suspected nothing. Meanwhile Chris and Bell were
bowling along towards Moreton Wells. They sat well back in the roomy
waggonette, so that the servants could not hear them.
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