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lawyer.
    â€œNot that I know of. He easily might come without me knowing,” I pointed out. “The Portent does all Father’s business for him and he never discusses business with me at all. It’s quite hopeless to think I can give you any inside information about Father’s will or anything of that sort.”
    â€œThe girls are worried,” said George.
    â€œAnd they’ve urged you to ask me to find out something! It’s not the least use. Hilda’s the only one who might be able to get anything out of Father, and she wouldn’t. The only other thing I can suggest is that you sound Miss Portisham.”
    â€œHang it all! I can’t do that!” George protested. “So—so—well, really! Hardly decent!”
    â€œLook here, George; you can’t have it both ways! You’re all frightfully anxious about Father’s will; you know it’s no use asking him, or you’re afraid to ask him. Well, then, either you must just hope for the best, or else go and see Mr. Crewkerne. If it’s not decent to fish for information in the only waters in which it’s likely to be found, then you’ll have to adopt direct methods or resign yourselves to not knowing.”
    â€œYou don’t understand these things, Jenny. I can’t ask Crewkerne. If father’s absolutely in his right mind—and I see no real grounds for supposing that he’s not—then Crewkerne wouldn’t tell me anything. In fact, I couldn’t ask him. It’s all very well for you to be so off-hand; you don’t understand the value of money!”
    Little he knew about that! Philip had been rubbing it in for a long time because he was afraid that I was going to find it hard to manage on the little we should have. We weren’t worrying about it any longer because we had decided that was no use and we were ready to take the plunge. I couldn’t explain all this to George, so I just pointed out that he needn’t worry for himself. Father was so keen about the family going on and Flaxmere being kept up properly, he was sure to provide for George.
    â€œAll very well for you, with no responsibilities, to talk about not worrying,” George grumbled. “The old man’s more touchy than ever about money, and things aren’t too easy with three kids. Kit’s prep school fees are bad enough, but when it comes to Eton, Heaven knows how we shall manage.”
    George is now managing director of the family biscuits, and I have always gathered that he draws an enormous salary in return for lounging into an office now and then and slapping people on the back and signing cheques.
    He went on. “It’s the horses. Don’t know what’s come to horses nowadays! Don’t run true to form!”
    I told him he was a fool to lose money on the Turf, because we have all heard Father talk in his most moralising way of how his own Father did the same and nearly wrecked the whole family. Father would never make good what George had lost by that method.
    â€œBesides, it’s not only that,” George went on. “It’s the possibility of scandal. How would you like it if you found he’d left practically everything to that woman? I don’t mean only the loss of your whack, but the gossip and all that?”
    I reminded George again of how keen Father was about Flaxmere being kept in the family. “Besides,” I said, “he must have a tremendous lot of money. I don’t see why you all get into such a fuss about the possibility of him leaving a good fat legacy to Miss Portisham. ‘To my faithful secretary, in gratitude for ten years’ devoted service.’ That sort of thing. Lots of people do it. There’s enough to go round.”
    â€œOf course,” George explained, “none of us would raise any objection to a suitable legacy. It’s something much more—well, sensational—that we’re afraid