of a waster as his brother had been of a money-getter. And there was no
withstanding their claim when it was finally decided that John
Mallathorpe had died intestate--no withstanding that, at any rate, of
the nephew and niece. The nephew had taken all the real estate: he and
his sister had shared the personal property. And for some months they
and their mother had been safely installed at Normandale Grange, and in
full possession of the dead man's wealth and business.

All this flashed through Linford Pratt's mind in a few seconds--he knew
all the story: he had often thought of the extraordinary good fortune of
those young people. To be living on charity one week--and the next to be
legal possessors of thousands a year!--oh, if only such luck would come
his way!

"Of course!" he repeated, looking thoughtfully at the old bookseller.
"Not the sort of thing one does forget in a hurry, Mr. Bartle. What of
it?"

Antony Bartle leaned back in his easy chair and chuckled--something,
some idea, seemed to be affording him amusement.

"I'm eighty years old," he remarked. "No, I'm more, to be exact. I shall
be eighty-two come February. When you've lived as long as that, young
Mr. Pratt, you'll know that this life is a game of topsy-turvy--to some
folks, at any rate. Just so!"

"You didn't come here to tell me that, Mr. Bartle," said Pratt. He was
an essentially practical young man who dined at half-past six every
evening, having lunched on no more than bread-and-cheese and a glass of
ale, and he also had his evenings well mapped out. "I know that already,