'It is all perfectly simple,' returned Morris, with laborious calm. 'There is no mystery. He stays at Browndean, where he got a shake in the accident.'
'Ah!' said Michael, 'got devil of a shake!'
'Why do you say that?' cried Morris sharply.
'Best possible authority. Told me so yourself,' said the lawyer. 'But if you tell me contrary now, of course I'm bound to believe either the one story or the other. Point is—I've upset this bottle, still champagne's exc'lent thing carpet—point is, is valuable uncle dead—an'—bury?'
Morris sprang from his seat. 'What's that you say?' he gasped.
'I say it's exc'lent thing carpet,' replied Michael, rising. 'Exc'lent thing promote healthy action of the skin. Well, it's all one, anyway. Give my love to Uncle Champagne.'
'You're not going away?' said Morris.
'Awf'ly sorry, ole man. Got to sit up sick friend,' said the wavering Michael.
'You shall not go till you have explained your hints,' returned Morris fiercely. 'What do you mean? What brought you here?'
'No offence, I trust,' said the lawyer, turning round as he opened the door; 'only doing my duty as shemishery of Providence.'
