After a lapse of two days, the document was
returned to me, with the notes and remarks of
the baronet's lawyer. His objections, in general,
proved to be of the most trifling and technical
kind, until he came to the clause relating to the
twenty thousand pounds. Against this, there
were double lines drawn in red ink, and the
following note was appended to them:

"Not admissible. The principal to go to Sir
Percival Glyde, in the event of his surviving
Lady Glyde, and there being no issue."

That is to say, not one farthing of the twenty
thousand pounds was to go to Miss Halcombe,
or to any other relative or friend of Lady
Glyde's. The whole sum, if she left no children,
was to slip into the pockets of her husband.

The answer I wrote to this audacious
proposal was as short and sharp as I could make it.
"My dear sir. I maintain clause number so-
and-so, exactly as it stands. Yours truly."
The rejoinder came back in a quarter of an hour.
"My dear sir. I maintain, the note in red ink
exactly as it stands. Yours truly." In the
detestable slang of the day, we were now both
"at a dead-lock," and nothing was left for it
but to refer to our clients on either side.

As matters stood, my client — Miss Fairlie not
having yet completed her twenty-first year — was
her guardian, Mr. Frederick Fairlie. I wrote
by that day's post, and put the case before him
exactly as it stood; not only urging every
argument I could think of to induce him to
maintain the clause as I had drawn it, but stating
to him plainly the mercenary motive which
was at the bottom of the opposition to my
settlement of the twenty thousand pounds. The
knowledge of Sir Percival's affairs which I
necessarily gained when the provisions of the
deed on his side were submitted in due course
to my examination, had but too plainly informed
me that the debts on his estate were enormous,
and that his income, though nominally a large
one, was, virtually, for a man in his position,
next to nothing. The want of ready money
was the practical necessity of Sir Percival's
existence; and his lawyer's note on the clause
in the settlement was nothing but the frankly
selfish expression of it.

Mr. Fairlie's answer reached me by return of
post, and proved to be wandering and irrelevant
in the extreme. Turned into plain English, it
practically expressed itself to this effect:
"Would dear Gilmore be so very obliging as
not to worry his friend and client about such a
trifle as a remote contingency? Was it likely
that a young woman of twenty-one would die
before a man of forty-five, and die without
children? On the other hand, in such a miserable
world as this, was it possible to over-estimate
the value of peace and quietness? If
those two heavenly blessings were offered in
exchange for such an earthly trifle as a remote
chance of twenty thousand pounds, was it not
a fair bargain? Surely, yes. Then why not
make it?"

I threw the letter away from me in disgust.
Just as it had fluttered to the ground, there
was a knock at my door; and Sir Percival's
solicitor, Mr. Merriman, was shown in. There
are many varieties of sharp practitioners in this
world, but, I think, the hardest of all to deal
with are the men who overreach you under
the disguise of inveterate good humour. A fat,
well-fed, smiling, friendly man of business is
of all parties to a bargain the most hopeless
to deal with. Mr. Merriman was one of this
class.

"And how is good Mr. Gilmore?" he began,
all in a glow with the warmth of his own
amiability. "Glad to see you, sir, in such
excellent health. I was passing your door; and
I thought I would look in, in case you might
have something to say to me. Do— now pray
do let us settle this little diiference of ours by
word of mouth, if we can! Have you heard
from your client yet?"

"Yes. Have you heard from yours?"

"My dear, good sir! I wish I had heard from
him to any purpose—I wish, with all my heart,
the responsibility was off my shoulders; but he
won't take it off. 'Merriman, I leave details to
you. Do what you think right for my interests;
and consider me as having personally withdrawn
from the business until it is all over.' Those
were Sir Percival's words a fortnight ago; and
all I can get him to do now is to repeat them.
I am not a hard man, Mr. Gilmore, as you know.
Personally and privately, I do assure you, I
should like to sponge out that note of mine at
this very moment. But if Sir Percival won't
go into the matter, if Sir Percival will blindly
leave all his interests in my sole care, what
course can I possibly take except the course
of asserting them? My hands are bound—
don't you see, my dear sir? — my hands are
bound."

"You maintain your note on the clause, then,
to the letter?" I said.

"Yes — deuce take it! I have no other
alternative." He walked to the fireplace, and warmed
himself, humming the fag end of a tune in a rich,
convivial bass voice. "What does your side
say?" he went on; "now pray tell me what
does your side say?"

I was ashamed to tell him. I attempted to
gain time — nay, I did worse. My legal instincts
got the better of me; and I even tried to bargain.

"Twenty thousand pounds is rather a large
sum to be given up by the lady's friends at two
days' notice," I said.

"Very true," replied Mr. Merriman, looking
down thoughtfully at his boots. "Properly put,
sir — most properly put!"

"A compromise, recognising the interests of
the lady's family as well as the interests of the
husband might not, perhaps, have frightened
my client quite so much," I went on. "Come!
come! this contingency resolves itself into a
matter of bargaining after all. What is the
least you will take?"

"The least we will take," said Mr. Merriman,
"is nineteen-thousand-nine-hundred-and-ninety-
nine-pounds-nineteen-shillings-and-eleven-