CHAPTER XXII.

The Right Hon. Sir Jordan Lynne, Bart., M.P., let an oath slip through his white lips. “You have got it?” he stammered. Lavarick smiled, and nodded and swung his foot to and fro with easy sang froid. “Yes, Sir Jordan, I’ve got it. When you’d gone outside to speak to the nurse I slipped in, picked up the will from the floor where you’d dropped it, and slipped out of the window again. You thought I hadn’t been in before when you saw me. And yet, it seems singular that a clever gentleman like you shouldn’t have guesse…