opinion of Mathew Moze
fell lower than ever, and fell finally.

The parlourmaid, in a negligence of attire indicating that no man was left
alive in the house, waited at the door of the study to learn whether or not
Miss Moze was in.

"You'll _have_ to see him," said Miss Ingate firmly. "It'll be all right.
I've known him all my life. He's a very nice man."

After the parlourmaid had gone, and while Audrey was upbraiding her for not
confessing earlier her acquaintance with Mr. Foulger, Miss Ingate added:

"Only his wife has a wooden leg."

Then Mr. Foulger entered. He was a shortish man of about fifty, with a
paunch, but not otherwise fat; dressed like a sportsman. He trod very
lightly. The expression on his ruddy face was amiable but extremely alert,
hardening at intervals into decision or caution. He saw before him a
nervous, frowning girl in inelegant black, and Miss Ingate with a curious
look in her eyes and a sardonic and timid twitching of her lips. For an
instant he was discountenanced; but he at once recovered, accomplishing a
bright salute.

"Here you are at last, Mr. Foulger!" Miss Ingate responded. "But you're too
late."

These mysterious words, and the speechlessness of Audrey, upset him again.

"I was away in Somersetshire for a little fishing," he said, after he had
deplored the death of Mr. Moze, the illness of Mrs. Moze, and the
bereavement of Miss Moze, and had congratulated Miss Moze on the protective
friendship of his old friend, Miss Ingate. "I was away for a little
fishing, and I only heard the sad news when I got back home at noon to-day.
I came over at once." He cleared his throat and looked first at Audrey and
then at Miss Ingate. He felt that he ought to be addressing Audrey, but
somehow he could not help addressing Miss Ingate instead. His grey legs
were spread abroad as he sat very erect on a chair, and between them his
dependent paunch found a comfortable space for itself.

"You must have been getting anxious about the will. I have brought it with
me," he said. He drew a white document from the breast-pocket of his
cutaway coat, and he perched a pair of eyeglasses carelessly on his nose.
"It was executed before your birth, Miss Moze. But a will keeps like wine.
The whole of the property of every description is left to Mrs. Moze, and
she is sole executrix. If she should predecease the testator, then
everything is left to his child or children. Not perhaps a very
businesslike will--a