about "a certain fair client who
shall be nameless."

The next minute he had heard a somewhat romantic, if not hysterical,
version of the facts of the case, and he was perusing the original
documents. By chance he read first the letter about the Zacatecas shares.
That Mathew Moze had made a will without his aid was a shock; that Mathew
Moze had invested money without his advice was another shock quite as
severe. But he knew the status of the Great Mexican Oil Company, and his
countenance lighted as he realised the rich immensity of the business of
proving the will and devolving the estate; his costs would run to the most
agreeable figures. As soon as he glanced at the testament which Mr. Cowl
had found, he muttered, with satisfaction and disdain:

"H'm! He made this himself."

And he gazed at it compassionately, as a cabinetmaker might gaze at a piece
of amateur fretwork.

Standing, he read it slowly and with extreme care. And when he had finished
he casually remarked, in the classic legal phrase:

"It isn't worth the paper it's written on."

Then he sat down again, and his neat paunch resumed its niche between his
legs. He knew that he had made a tremendous effect.

"But--but----" Miss Ingate began.

"Not worth the paper it's written on," he repeated. "There is only one
witness, and there ought to be two, and even the one witness is a bad
one--Aguilar, because he profits under the will. He would have to give up
his legacy before his attestation could count, and even then it would be no
good alone. Mr. Moze has not even expressly revoked the old will. If there
hadn't been a previous will, and if Aguilar was a thoroughly reliable man,
and if the family had wished to uphold the new will, I dare say the Court
_might_ have pronounced for it. But under the circumstances it hasn't the
ghost of a chance."

"But won't the National Reformation Society make trouble?" demanded Miss
Ingate faintly.

"Let 'em try!" said Mr. Foulger, who wished that the National Reformation
Society would indeed try.

Even as he articulated the words, he was aware of Audrey coming towards him
from the direction of the door; he was aware of her black frock and of her
white face, with its bulging forehead and its deliciously insignificant
nose. She held out her hand.

"You are a dear!" she whispered.

Her lips seemed to aim uncertainly for his face. Did they just touch, with
exquisite contact, his bristly chin, or was it a divine illusio