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Crum received me. Meadows is an anachronistic figment of the imagination long deposited in a Hampstead vault. His partner continues the business with other partners, who are considered to be sufficiently dignified by the title of Co. He is a benignant old man, with an unblemished bald head and character. I believe a warm heart beats under his deliberation, and he has shown good faith and personal service to my family for more years than I dare say he cares to count. He welcomed me with a quaint subdued tolerance hovering on the outskirts of the chastened air he thought befitting the mournful occasion. For myself I will say frankly and at once that I could pretend no regret for the accident which led to my being Crum’s future client. I had never even seen my uncle since I was at Eton. In point of fact I felt the matter to be, personally, only one for self-gratulation.

“Desperately sudden, my lord,” quoth the old gentleman, making me twitch in my chair as I heard myself addressed by my title for the first time, “desperately sudden. We received advises from his late lordship on financial matters only a week ago, and now—it’s come like a thunderclap, I assure you.”