Argosy All-Story Weekly, February 4, 1922 — page 162: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

472 “Not a professional consultation, you understand,” the minister replied with quick caution. “Oh!” Will Agnew’s voice dropped. “Well, you see, we lawyers have to live just the same as the parsons. However, as a personal favor, I'll waive the question of a fee this time.” “You misunderstand me,” Mr. Powell murmured confusedly. ‘ What I wished to consult you about has nothing whatever to do with me. It has, in fact, to do with your clients, Mr. and Mrs. Tremlett. I’ve been wondering for a long time what my clear duty is.” “Indeed! Well, no time like the pres- ent. I am at your service, Mr. Powell. Here we are. Wait until I turn on the light. These stairs are rather tricky.” The solicitor’s offices, reached by a side entrance, were over an iron-monger’s shop, and deserted at this hour. The two men went up-stairs; Agnew first, turning on lights; the minister treading cautiously be- hind him, rather excited and troubled as to the propriety of making the confidence he himself had proposed. The green-shaded lamp in Will’s “ sanc- tum,” as he called it, having been switched on, Mr. Powell was invited to take a chair, hastily cleared of a stack of law reports. It was an untidy little room, dusty and rather sparsely furnished, but one got the impression that quite a lot of work was done here. The host produced cigars, glasses, and a bottle of sherry, but Mr. Powell shyly refused to partake of any re- freshment. Will coughed apologetically and then winked. “Well, of course if you won't, it’s not for me to press you. However, between friends—I can assure you the news would not leak out. I’m the one man in Witcham who can be trusted like a bank.” Mr. Powell smiled wanly. ‘ I’m glad to hear that, because it might be important that what I wish to speak to you about should go no further. No, thank you, Mr. Agnew, I don’t smoke, and while I was once persuaded to ‘have a glass of sherry wine at a christening party, it disagreed with me. But don’t let my abstinence deter you—”’ ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. Will Agnew had no intention of letting it deter him. ‘Lowering to the spirits, funerals are,” he said cheerfully, lighting his fat cigar. and pouring himself a generous measure from the brown bottle. “I’ve been look- ing forward to this peaceful hour all the afternoon. Well, here’s lowering spirits to raise em. Ha! Ha!” He drained off the glass and laughed at his own pretty wit. ‘And now, Mr. Powell, although time is money, I am a born spendthrift and at your. service indefinitely.” The minister thanked him gravely. “When you’ve heard what I have to say, Mr. Agnew, I’m sure you'll agree that there could be no question of your accepting a fee. Have I your word, sir, that you will not speak about this except to those con- cerned, and only to them if it seems—er— feasible?” Will Agnew nodded. ‘“ Ab-so-lutely,” he said with emphasis. ‘Very well. Mr. Agnew, some time ago there came to my attention a rather curi- ous coincidence. Were you acquainted with Mrs. Tremlett’s first husband?” Agnew nodded again. ‘I represented Tremlett when Marshall was prosecuted for theft,” he said. ‘Dick was a decent enough fellow, but down on his luck. He must have been desperate to take that money.” “Unfortunately, I never met him. At least I don’t remember him. It’s rather a delicate question to ask—lI’ve often won- dered, since Mrs. ‘Dundas was so set against Mrs. Tremlett and the marriage having taken place in London—I’ve wondered if — Mrs. Tremlett was divorced from her first husband.” “Good Lor’, no! Dick Marshall died In Quentin. She was a widow when she married Tremlett—only just a widow, too. They rushed it.” ** Well, I don’t think Marshall is dead,” Mr. Powell said in his hesitating fashion. The solicitor leaned forward and took the cigar out of his mouth. “Bless my soul, sir!” he exclaimed. ‘“* Now however coild you get an idea like that?” ‘In several ways. You see, Mr. Agnew, COmiCclbooks.Gom