Clodd. Mr. Pincer, a stout, heavy gentleman connected with the
House of Commons, maintained a ministerial reserve. The
undertaker's foreman expressed himself as thankful when it was
over. He criticised it as the humpiest funeral he had ever known;
for a time he had serious thoughts of changing his profession.

The solicitor's clerk was waiting for the party on its return from
Kensal Green. Clodd again offered hospitality. Mr. Pincer this
time allowed himself a glass of weak whisky-and-water, and sipped
it with an air of doing so without prejudice. The clerk had one a
little stronger, Mrs. Gladman, dispensing with consultation,
declined shrilly for self and partner. Clodd, explaining that he
always followed legal precedent, mixed himself one also and drank
"To our next happy meeting." Then the clerk read.

It was a short and simple will, dated the previous August. It
appeared that the old gentleman, unknown to his relatives, had died
possessed of shares in a silver mine, once despaired of, now
prospering. Taking them at present value, they would produce a sum
well over two thousand pounds. The old gentleman had bequeathed
five hundred pounds to his brother-in-law, Mr. Gladman; five
hundred pounds to his only other living relative, his first cousin,
Mr. Pincer; the residue to his friend, William Clodd, as a return
for the many kindnesses that gentleman had shown him.

Mr. Gladman rose, more amused than angry.

"And you think you are going to pocket that one thousand to twelve
hundred pounds. You really do?" he asked Mr. Clodd, who, with legs
stretched out before him, sat with his hands deep in his trousers