OLIVIA GALE leaned back in her chair at the end of the dining-room table, and looked first at the elderly gentleman on her right, and then at the elderly gentleman on her left.<br />&ldquo;You&rsquo;re both of you as kind as can be, and I&rsquo;m more than grateful for all you&rsquo;ve done; but I do wish you&rsquo;d see that it&rsquo;s no use arguing. It only hurts and makes us tired. Do help yourself, Mr. Trivett. And&mdash;another cup of tea, Mr. Fenmarch?&rdquo;<br />Mr. Fenmarch, on her left, passed his cup with a sigh. He was a dusty, greyish man, his face covered with an indeterminate growth of thin short hair. His eyes were of a dull, unspeculative blue.<br />&ldquo;As your solicitor, my dear Olivia,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I can only obey instructions. As the friend of your family, I venture to give you advice.&rdquo;