"Have you got a copy of the will or of the decree of distribution?" he asked at length.

She shook her head.

"Do I need one?" she asked.

The lawyer nodded.

"I can't very well give you an interpretation of a legal document until I've seen the document."

"But I told you exactly what it said."

"You gave me your version of what it said. There may be a great deal of difference."

She spoke swiftly, impatiently. "I understand that conditions in a will which prevent a person from marrying can be set aside."

"That's not correct," he told her. "Generally speaking, a condition by which a party is prevented from marrying is considered against public policy and void. But that's subject to certain qualifications, particularly in the case of crusts of the type which are known as 'spendthrift' trusts. Apparently the trust which was created under your father's will was one of this nature.

"Moreover, you note that there is no restriction upon marriage after you have reached the age of twentyfive. As a matter of fact, your uncle seems to be given a wide discretion in the matter, and the provisions of the will as you have given them to me, merely indicate the circumstances under which he is to exercise his discretion."

She seemed suddenly to have lost her protective poise. Her voice rose, "Well, I've heard a lot about you," she said. "They say that some lawyers tell people what they can do and what they can't do, but that you always fix things so a person can do what he wants to."

Mason smiled, the smile of wisdom garnered from bitter experience, of knowledge amassed from the confidences of thousands of clients.

"Perhaps," he said, "that's partially true. A man can nearly always think his way out of any situation in which he finds himself. It's merely a paraphrase of the old saying that where there's a will there's a way."

"Well," she told him, "there's a will in this case. I want the way."

"Whom do you want to marry?" he asked abruptly.

The eyes did not waver, but stared steadily at him in dark appraisal.

"Rob Gleason," she said.

"Does your uncle know him?"

"Yes."

"Does he approve of him?"

"No."

"You love him?"

"Yes.

"He knows of this provision in the will?"

Her eyes lowered.

"I think perhaps he does now. But he didn't," she said.

"What do you mean he didn't?" asked the lawyer.

There could be no question now that the eyes were avoiding his.

"Just an expression," she said, "I didn't mean anything by it."

Perry Mason studied her intently for a few minutes.

"And I take it you want to marry him very much."

She looked at him then, and said in a voice that was vibrant with feeling: "Mr. Mason, don't make any mistake about it. I am going to marry Rob Gleason. You can take that as being final. You have got to find some way by which I can do it. That's all! I'm leaving that end of it up to you. I'm putting myself in your hands. I am going to get married."

He started to say something, then paused to study her carefully before he spoke.

"Well," he said, "you seem to know pretty much what you want."

"I do," she flared.

"Suppose then, you come back at this time tomorrow morning. In the meantime I will have looked up the court records."

She shook her head.

"Tomorrow morning," she protested, "is too long. Can't you do it this afternoon?"

Perry Mason's patient eyes dwelt steadily on her face.

"Perhaps," he said. "Will four o'clock suit you?"

She nodded.

"Very well," he told her, getting to his feet. "Come back then. You can leave your name and address with my secretary in the outer office."

"I've already done that," she told him, arising from the chair and smoothing the line of her skirt. "I'll be back at four."

She didn't look back as she walked across the office, opened the door and swept out into the outer room.

Perry Mason sat at his desk, narrowing his eyes in thoughtful appraisal, as he watched the door through which the young woman had gone.

After a moment he extended a sturdy forefinger, and jabbed a button on the side of his desk.

A young man with unruly hair, and a face that seemed pathetically eager, popped his head through the doorway leading from a law library, then entered the room.

"Frank," said Perry Mason, "go up to the court house and find the papers in the Celane Estate. A Frances Celane was given property amounting to more than a million dollars in trust. The name of the trustee is Edward Norton. Check the decree of distribution, and also the will. Make copies of the trust provisions, then get back here as soon as you can."

The boy blinked his eyes swiftly, twice.

"Celane?" he asked.

"Yes," said Mason. "Carl Celane."

"And Norton?"

"Yes, Edward Norton," said Mason.

"Thank you," said the boy. He turned abruptly, crossed the office with nervous, selfconscious haste, as though painfully aware of the gaze of Perry Mason, and plunged into the outer office.

Perry Mason rang for his secretary.

Della Street, his secretary, was about twentyseven years old. Her manner radiated assurance and efficiency. She pushed open the door from the outer office.

"You rang?" she asked.

"Yes," he told her, "come in."

She stepped into the office and closed the door gently behind her.

"Let's check our impressions," he said, "about that girl."

"How do you mean?" she asked.

He stared at her moodily.

"I think," he said, "that I put the words in your mouth. You said she looked trapped or sulky. Now I am wondering which it was."

"Does it make a lot of difference?" asked Della Street.

"I think it does," he told her. "In your impressions you are usually right and you had a chance to see her when she wasn't posing. She started to pose as soon as she came into my office."

"Yes," said Della Street, "she's the type that would be good at posing."

"She sat down in the chair," he told her, "and figured just how to hold her head, just how to cross her knees and arrange her skirt, just what kind of an expression to put on her face."

"Did she tell you the truth?" asked Della Street.

"None of them tell the truth the first time," he told her, "at least the women don't. That's why I want to know just what kind of an impression she made on you. Did she look trapped, or did she look sulky?"

Della Street spoke thoughtfully, as though weighing her words carefully.

"She looked both trapped and sulky," she said, "as though she got caught in some kind of a trap and had turned sulky."

"Are you sure," he asked, "that it wasn't panic?"

"How do you mean?" she wanted to know.

"Lots of people," he said, "try to put on a poker face when they are in a panic and when they try to put on a poker face they look sulky."

"And you think she was in a panic?" asked Della Street.

"Yes," he said, slowly. "I think she was in a panic. I think she's a selfwilled little devil who nearly always gets her own way and who has an ungovernable temper. I think she's caught in some sort of a trap and is trying to get out. When we know her better we'll find out more about her temper."

"A hellcat?" asked Della Street.

He twisted his lips in a smile.

"Let's call her a hellkitten," he said.