Beaumaroy was standing on the far side of the table, his finger-tips
resting lightly on it. He looked across at Mary with eyes candidly
inquiring.

"I've found nothing else so far. I suppose he's got nothing to
worry him?"

"Not really, I think. He fusses a bit about his affairs." He smiled. "We
go to London every week to fuss about his affairs; he's always changing
his investments, taking his money out of one thing and putting it in
another, you know. Old people get like that sometimes, don't they? I'm a
novice at that kind of thing, never having had any money to play with;
but I'm bound to say that he seems to know very well what he's about."

"Do you know anything of his history or his people? Has he any
relations?"

"I know very little. I don't think he has any, any real relations, so to
speak. There are, I believe, some cousins, distant cousins, whom he
hates. In fact, a lonely old bachelor, Dr. Arkroyd."

Mary gave a little laugh and became less professional. "He's rather an
old dear! He uses funny stately phrases. He said I might speak quite
openly to you, as you were closely attached to his person!"

"Sounds rather like a newspaper, doesn't it? He does talk like that
sometimes." Beaumaroy moved round the table, came close to the fire, and
stood there, smiling down at Mary.