The bailiff seemed surprised at this request.
"Why, surely, Steph, you can't want a lawyer mixed up in the business!"
he said. "Those sort of chaps only live by making work for one another.
You know how to make your will well enough, old fellow, without any
attorney's aforesaids and hereinafters. Half a sheet of paper and a
couple of sentences would do it, I should think; the fewer words the
better."
"I'd rather have Pivott, and do it in a regular manner," Mr. Whitelaw
answered quietly. "I remember, in a forgery case that was in the papers
the other day, how the judge said of the deceased testator, that, being a
lawyer, he was too wise to make his own will. Yes, I'd rather see Pivott,
if you'll send for him, Carley. It's always best to be on the safe side.
I don't want my money wasted in a chancery suit when I'm lying in my
grave."
William Carley tried to argue the matter with his son-in-law; but the
attempt was quite useless. Mr. Whitelaw had always been the most
obstinate of men--and lying on his bed, maimed and helpless, was no more
to be moved from his resolve than if he had been a Roman gladiator who
had just trained himself for an encounter with lions. So the bailiff was
compelled to obey him, unwillingly enough, and dispatched one of the men
to Malsham in quest of Mr.
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