"Drew it up, Sunday night. . . . Where's my coat? . . . here, catch!"
He pulled out a long legal envelope, well stuffed, and threw it
across to me. "Don't open it now. When you do, you'll find
everything in order. I've a habit of neatness with my worldly
affairs."
"All very well," said I. "But you'll have to tell a lot more before
I commit myself. And, anyhow, things can't be done in this easy way.
You'll have to see a solicitor and get me power of attorney or
something of the sort--"
"Look here," he interrupted; "I thought it was understood that I'd
come to you for _help_. Power of attorney? Bosh! Not going to
commit yourself? Why, man, you're committed! The cheque's drawn and
paid into your account at Hoare's. . . . I did it yesterday--caught
'em just before closing-time. You'll be hearing in a post or so.
They have all the bonds too, and my written instructions. . . . I
bank there, too, you know."
"Heaven alive!" said I, with a gasp. "Are you telling me you've
chucked all you possess into my account?"
"Why not?" he demanded. "Oh, you can make me out an I O U some time,
and get Jimmy to witness it, if you're so damned--what's the word?--
punctilious.
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