‘December, 1746,’ Sir George answered.

‘The term has then nine months to run?’

‘Yes.’

‘With submission, then it comes to this,’ the lawyer answered thoughtfully, marking off the points with his pen in the air.  ’In the event of—­of this will operating—­all, or nearly all of your property, Sir George, goes to your uncle’s heirs in tail—­if to be found—­and failing issue of his body to my Lord Chatham?’

‘Those are my intentions.’

‘Precisely, sir,’ the lawyer answered, glancing at the clock.  ’And they shall be carried out.  But—­ahem!  Do I understand, sir, that in the event of a claimant making good his claim before the expiration of the nine months, you stand to lose this stupendous, this magnificent sum—­even in your lifetime?’

‘I do,’ Sir George answered grimly.  ’But there will be enough left to pay your bill.’

Peter stretched out his hands in protest, then, feeling that this was unprofessional, he seized the pen.  ’Will you please to honour me with the names of the executors, sir?’ he said.

‘Dr. Addington, of Harley Street.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And Mr. Dagge, of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, attorney-at-law.’

‘It is an honour to be in any way associated with him,’ the lawyer muttered, as he wrote the name with a flourish.  ’His lordship’s man of business, I believe.  And now you may have your mind at ease, sir,’ he continued.  ’I will put this into form before I sleep, and will wait on you for your signature—­shall I say at—­’

‘At a quarter before eight,’ said Soane.  ‘You will be private?’

’Of course, sir.  It is my business to be private.  I wish you a very good night.’

The attorney longed to refer to the coming meeting, and to his sincere hope that his new patron would leave the ground unscathed.  But a duel was so alien from the lawyer’s walk in life, that he knew nothing of the punctilios, and he felt a delicacy.  Tamely to wish a man a safe issue seemed to be a common compliment incommensurate with the occasion; and a bathos.  So, after a moment of hesitation, he gathered up his papers, and tip-toed out of the room with an absurd exaggeration of respect, and a heart bounding jubilant under his flapped waistcoat.

Left to himself, Sir George heaved a sigh, and, resting his head on his hand, stared long and gloomily at the candles.  ’Well, better be run through by this clown,’ he muttered after a while, ’than live to put a pistol to my own head like Mountford and Bland.  Or Scarborough, or poor Bolton.  It is not likely, and I wish that little pettifogger had not put it into my head; but if a cousin were to appear now, or before the time is up, I should be in Queer Street.  Estcombe is dipped:  and of the money I raised, there is no more at the agent’s than I have lost in a night at Quinze!  D——­n White’s and that is all about it.  And d——­n it, I shall, and finely, if old Anthony’s lad turn up and sweep off the three thousand a year that is left.  Umph, if I am to have a steady hand to-morrow I must get to bed.  What unholy chance brought me into this scrape?’