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out in a thick network; and his hands clawed and gesticulated as his words came more broken and huskily, till all at once, and without warning, his head fell, and Gertrude let him sink motionless upon the pillow.

      At that moment the door opened, and in answer to the bell, the housekeeper entered.

      “Mrs Denton, quick – uncle!” cried Gertrude.

      “Your master wants his solicitor, Mrs Denton,” said Saul, coolly walking to the bedside and taking one of the old man’s hands. “No,” he said huskily, “a doctor.”

      “Yes, yes; the doctor, Mrs Denton – quick!” cried Gertrude excitedly, and the old woman ran out.

      As the door closed behind her, Saul let the hand fall heavily and inert upon the counterpane.

      “Uncle, dearest, speak – pray speak to me!” cried Gertrude passionately.

      “Never again, my girl,” said Saul quietly. “The fit has done its work. Too late.”

      “What do you mean?” cried Gertrude, staring all aghast.

      “That the old man is dead,” said Saul coldly; and he added softly to himself: “If George Harrington dies. I am master here.”

      Chapter Six

      How the Money was Left

      “A singularly quiet funeral, Mr Hampton,” said Doctor Lawrence as he rode back in the same carriage with the solicitor.

      “The wish of the deceased, sir. He had a great dislike to wasting money.”

      “Bit miserly, Mr Hampton.”

      “No, sir, no. On the whole a generous man, but if he spent money, as he used to say to me. He liked to have something substantial in return.”

      “Well, I must say for him, that he was always prompt in his payments.”

      “Always,” said the lawyer.

      “But with his wealth it seems strange that we have not got a host of needy relatives. We can talk about it, Hampton, not being relatives. Wish I was. A slice of the poor old boy’s cake would have been a nice help to a family man like me.”

      “Humph, yes, I suppose so. Money’s nice. Very sudden at last, doctor.”

      “Ye-es, and no,” said the doctor. “When a man gets to eighty-five you may say his life hangs by a cobweb. Any little excitement may bring it to an end.”

      “Humph! Hah! And I’ve a shrewd suspicion that he had an angry interview with Mr Harrington – the nephew.”

      “And heir?” said the doctor.

      “My dear Lawrence,” said the old lawyer, smiling, “never try to pump one of our profession. In a very short time I shall be reading the will, so curb your impatience.”

      “Of course, my dear sir, of course; only a little natural curiosity. Between ourselves I think it will be a pity if he marries our charming young friend, Gertrude.”

      “Thousand pities,” said the old lawyer drily. “Sooner marry her myself – if I could.”

      The carriage drew up at the outer gates as he spoke, and the ugly old brick house, known as “The Mynns,” seemed a little more cheerful now that the blinds, which had been down for days, were raised and the sun allowed to light up the gloomy rooms, in one of which – the dining-room – the little party assembled after a while to hear the reading of the will; Saul’s enemy, the dog, taking up his position or the hearthrug.

      The party consisted of Gertrude, who came in attended by Bruno; Mrs Hampton, a stiff, stern old lady, who looked like a black dress with a face on the top; Saul Harrington, and the servants. Mr Hampton was there officially, and the doctor was retiring to see a patient in town, when the lawyer took him by the coat.

      “Don’t go, Lawrence,” he said; “you forget you are an executor.”

      “Oh, yes, of course, so I did.”

      “It’s a long time since the will was executed, and I have some recollection of a snuff-box left to you.”

      “Indeed,” said the doctor, with his face lighting up as he rubbed his hands; “then he has left me the old engine turned silver snuff-box. I took a fancy to it years ago, and he laughed and said he would leave it to me in his will. Now that’s very pleasant of him to remember me. Eh Miss Gertrude? Yes, I’m very glad.”

      The doctor drew out a holly-root box, took snuff loudly, and looking up at the portrait of the old man, gave it a friendly nod, while the eyes seemed to be gazing into his is they did into those of all present.

      Then the last will and testament was read, and Saul Harrington listened impatiently to the minor bequests to the under-servants, no one being forgotten; and to the comfortable legacy left to Mrs Denton with the wish that she would always remain housekeeper at The Mynns, so long as her health permitted. Then came a fairly large amount for the maintenance of “my old and faithful servant Bruno,” with the addition that if “my heir” did not feel inclined keep the dog, Mrs Denton was to have him in charge and care for him till his death.

      “Lucky dog!” said the doctor to himself; and he glanced at Gertrude, who was holding Mrs Hampton’s hand while crying gently, and, as if not to intrude on her sorrow, he again looked up at the portrait, gave it a friendly nod, and then chirruped softly to the dog, which came and laid its head upon his knee, after turning its eyes apologetically to Gertrude.

      Then the doctor’s attention was excited by the next clause in the will which bequeathed “to my old friend and adviser, Phineas Hampton, five thousand pounds clear of legacy duty.”

      “Another lucky dog,” muttered the doctor, who then drew in his breath with a hiss as he heard the lawyer’s words:

      “To my very old friend, Edward Lawrence, MD, my old silver snuff-box which he once admired.”

      “Hah! I’m very glad,” said the doctor, meeting Gertrude’s eyes now, as the lawyer paused to look up and repeat from the will the next words:

      “And ten thousand pounds free of legacy duty.”

      “No!” ejaculated the doctor, half rising. Then sitting down again he exclaimed, “Well!” took out his pocket-handkerchief, blew his nose loudly, and then, without disguise, sat quietly wiping away the tears.

      “To my nephew, Saul Harrington, one hundred pounds a year, raised as hereinafter specified by a Government annuity.”

      Saul frowned and looked down at the carpet, though it was all he had dared to expect, and he listened eagerly to the next clause which left an annuity of one hundred per annum to the testator’s dear adopted child, Gertrude Bellwood, with the hope that she would fulfil his wishes. In conclusion, as Saul was trying to recover from the shock of knowing that Gertrude had spoken the truth, came the clauses dealing with the remainder of the old man’s wealth, which was left unconditionally with certain sums and their interest, sums remitted from the United States, “to my grandson, George Harrington, in the hope that he will dutifully fulfil my wishes expressed to him in the last letter I sent to America.”

      The other parts of the will, with its appointment of “my old friends, Doctor Lawrence and Phineas Hampton, to be my sole executors,” seemed to consist of the ringing of bells in Saul Harrington’s ears as he still sat gazing down at the carpet when all was over.

      “My congratulations, Lawrence,” said the old lawyer, smiling.

      “My dear Hampton, I don’t know how to be sufficiently grateful. And, my dear Miss Gertrude, I cannot take this. Ten thousand pounds, and you only left with a hundred a year. Look here, Hampton. Now, no nonsense. I shall only take some of this money – half. The other I insist upon making over to Miss Gertrude here as her dowry.”

      “Can’t be done. Shan’t be done,” said the old lawyer gruffly. “Lawrence, we’ve known each other twenty years.”

      “Yes, we have.”

      “Then don’t be a fool.”

      “And

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