The offices of Messrs. Parsons and Glieve, solicitors, are situated off the Strand, and within seven minutes’ walk of Covent Garden. It is an old-established and exceedingly respectable firm. Its respectability is emphasized by the massiveness of its furniture and the age of its office boy. He is fifty, if he is a day. An exceeding slowness of brain prevented him from rising to a more exalted position, a position to which his quite extraordinary conscientiousness and honesty would have entitled him. That same conscientiousness and honesty prevented him from being superseded by a more juvenile individual, when his age had passed the limit usually accorded to office boys. Imperceptibly almost, he became part and parcel of the firm, a thing no more to be dispensed with than the brass plate outside the office. He appeared now as an elderly and exceedingly reputable butler, and his appearance quite enormously increased the respectability of the firm.

Nominally James Glieve and Henry Parsons were partners of equal standing, neither claiming seniority to the other; virtually James Glieve was the voice, Henry Parsons the echo. In matters of great importance, they received clients in company, Henry Parsons playing the part of Greek chorus to James Glieve’s lead. In matters of less importance, they each had their own particular clients; but it is very certain that, even thus, Henry Parsons invariably echoed the voice. It merely meant that the voice had sounded in private, while the echo was heard in public.

When George, the office-boy-butler, presented James Glieve with a small piece of pasteboard, on the morning following Antony’s arrival in town, with the statement that the gentleman was in the waiting-room, James Glieve requested the instant presence of Henry Parsons, prior to the introduction of Antony. From which token it will be justly observed that the matter in hand was of importance. In James Glieve’s eyes it was of extreme importance, and that by reason of its being extremely unusual.

Some six weeks previously an unknown client had made his appearance in the person of a big clean-shaven man, by name Doctor Hilary St. John. Henry Parsons happened, this time quite by accident, to be present at the interview. The big man had made certain statements in an exceedingly business-like manner, and had then requested Messrs. Parsons and Glieve to act on his behalf, or, rather, on behalf of the person for whom he was emissary.

“But, bless my soul,” James Glieve had boomed amazed, on the conclusion of the request, “I never heard such a thing in my life. It—I am not at all sure that it is legal.”

“Not at all sure that it is legal,” Henry Parsons had echoed.

The big man had laughed, recapitulated his statements, and urged his point.

“I don’t see how it can be done,” James Glieve had responded obstinately.

“It can’t be done,” the echo had repeated with even greater assurance than the voice.

“Oh, yes, it can,” Doctor Hilary had replied with greater assurance still. “See here—” and he had begun all over again.

“Tut, tut,” James Glieve had clucked on the conclusion of the third recital. “You’ve said all that before. I tell you, man, the whole business is too unusual. It—I’m sure it isn’t legal. And anyhow it’s mad. What’s the name of your—er, your deceased friend?”

“The name?” piped Henry Parsons.

“Nicholas Danver,” had been the brief response.

“Nicholas Danver!” James Glieve had almost shouted the words. “Nicholas Danver! God bless my soul!” And he had leant back in his chair and shaken with laughter. Henry Parsons, true to his rÔle, had chuckled at intervals, but feebly. For the life of him he could see no cause for mirth.

“Oh, Nick, Nick,” sighed James Glieve, wiping his eyes after a few minutes, “I always vowed you’d be the death of me. To think of you turning up in the life of a staid elderly solicitor at this hour.”

Henry Parsons stared. And this time his voice found no echo.

“Well, Doctor,” said James Glieve, stuffing his handkerchief back into his pocket, “I suppose I—” he broke off. “This is a most respectable firm of solicitors,” he remarked suddenly and almost fiercely. “We’d never dream of stooping to anything approaching fraud.”

“Not dream of it,” echoed Henry.

“Of course not,” said Doctor Hilary heartily. “But this——”

“Oh, yes, I daresay, I daresay. Now then, what are your propositions?”

“Your propositions?” echoed Henry.

And a fourth time Doctor Hilary repeated them.

At the end of a lengthy interview, James Glieve opened the door of his sanctum to show Doctor Hilary out.

“You might give my kindest remembrances—” he stopped. “Bless my soul, I was just going to send my remembrances to old Nick, and we’ve been spending the last hour settling up his will. Where’s my memory going! I shall probably run down in a few days, and go through matters with you on the spot. A—er, a melancholy pleasure to see the old place again. What?”

Henry Parsons, within the room, lost this last speech; therefore it found no echo.

When Antony entered the private sanctum of James Glieve, he saw a stout red-faced man, with a suspicion of side whiskers and a slight appearance of ferocity, seated at a desk. On his right, and insignificant by comparison, was a small grey-haired and rather dried-up man.

“Mr. Antony Gray?” queried the red-faced man, looking at Antony over his spectacles.

Antony bowed.

“You come in answer to our communication regarding the will of the—er, late Mr. Nicholas Danver?” asked James Glieve.

“I do,” responded Antony. And he drew the said communication from his pocket, and laid it on the table.

James Glieve glanced at it. Then he leant back in his chair, put his elbows on its arms, and placed the tips of his fingers together.

“The—er, the conditions of the will are somewhat unusual,” he announced. “It is my duty to set them plainly before you. Should you refuse them, we are to see that you are fully recompensed for any expense and inconvenience your journey will have entailed. Should you, on the other hand, accept them, it is understood that as a man of honour you will fulfil the conditions exactly, not only in the letter, but in the spirit.”

“In the spirit,” echoed Henry Parsons.

Antony bowed in silence.

“Of course, should you fail in your contract,” went on James Glieve, “the will becomes null and void. But it would be quite possible for you to keep to the contract in the letter, while breaking it merely in the spirit, in which case probably no one but yourself would be aware that it had been so broken. You will not be asked to sign any promise in the matter. You will only be asked to give your word.”

“To give your word,” said Henry Parsons, looking solemnly at Antony.

“Yes,” said Antony quietly.

James Glieve pulled a paper towards him.

“The conditions,” he announced, “are as follows. I am about to read what the—er, late Mr. Nicholas Danver has himself written regarding the matter.”

He cleared his throat, and pushed his spectacles back on his nose.

Antony looked directly at him. In spite of the business-like appearance of the room, the business-like attitude of the two men opposite to him, he still felt that odd Arabian Nights’ entertainment sensation. The room and its occupants seemed to be masquerading under a business garb; it seemed to need but one word—if he could have found it—to metamorphose the whole thing back to its original and true conditions, to change the room into an Aladdin’s cave, and the two men into a friendly giant and an attendant dwarf. The only thing he could not see metamorphosed was George, the office-boy-butler. He retained his own appearance and personality. He appeared to have been brought—as a human boy, possibly—into the entertainment, and to have grown up imperturbably in it. Though quite probably, under his present respectable demeanour, he was well aware of the true state of affairs, and was laughing inwardly at it.

James Glieve cleared his throat a second time, and began.

“The conditions under which I make the aforesaid Antony Gray my heir,” he read, “are as follows. He will not enter into possession of either property or money for one year precisely from the day of hearing these conditions. He shall give his word of honour to make known to no person whatsoever that he is my heir. He shall live, during the said year, in a furnished cottage on the estate, the cottage to be designated to him by my friend Doctor Hilary St. John. He will undertake that he lives in that cottage and nowhere else, not even for a day. He will live as an ordinary labourer. That this may be facilitated he will have a post as one of the under-gardeners in the gardens of Chorley Old Hall. Golding, the head-gardener, will instruct him in his duties. He will be paid one pound sterling per week as wage, and he shall pay a rent of five shillings per week for the cottage. He will undertake to use no income or capital of his own during the said year, nor receive any help or money from friends. Briefly, he will undertake to make the one pound per week, which he will earn as wage, suffice for his needs. He will take the name of Michael Field for one year, and neither directly nor indirectly will he acquaint any one whomsoever with the fact that it is a pseudonym. In short, he will do all in his power to give the impression to everyone that he is simply and solely Michael Field, working-man, and under-gardener at Chorley Old Hall.

“He will make his decision in the matter within twenty-four hours, and, should his decision be in the affirmative, he will bind himself, as a man of honour to abide by it. And, further, he will proceed to Byestry within one week of the decision, to take up his duties, and his residence in the aforesaid cottage.

James Glieve stopped. He did not look at Antony, but at the paper, which he placed on the desk in front of him.

“Hmm,” said Antony quietly and ruminatively.

“You have twenty-four hours in which to make your decision,” said James Glieve.

“Twenty-four hours,” said Henry Parsons.

“I think that’s as well,” returned Antony. He was still feeling the quite absurd desire to find the word which should metamorphose the scene before him to its true conditions.

“I told you the terms of the will were unusual,” said James Glieve.

“Very unusual,” emphasized Henry Parsons.

“They are,” said Antony dryly. Then he got up from his chair. He looked at his watch. “Well, Mr. Glieve, it is twelve o’clock. I will let you know my decision by eleven o’clock to-morrow morning. That, I believe, will entirely fulfil the conditions?”

“Entirely,” said James Glieve.

“Entirely,” echoed Henry Parsons.