LITMIR.BIZ

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see Jack?”

      Stephen had no need to reply: the old man rambled on without waiting, excepting to struggle for breath.

      “He is down-stairs. Poor boy! it’s a pity he is such a fool. There was always one like him in the Newcombe family. But the other—Stephen—the man who has been hanging about me all this time, eager to lick my boots so that he might step into them when I was gone; he is a fool and a knave.”

      Stephen’s face went white and his lips twitched. It is probable that he remembered the adage: “Listeners hear no good of themselves.”

      “He is the first of his kind we have had in the family. Plenty of fools and scamps, Hudsley, but no hypocrites till this one. Well, he’ll get his deserts. I’d give a thousand pounds to come back and hear the will read, and see his face. He makes so sure of it, too, the oily eel!”

      Stephen writhed like an eel, indeed, and his lips blanched. Was the old man delirious, or had he, Stephen, really played the part of sycophant, toady and boot-licker all these years for nothing?

      Great drops of sweat rolled down his face, his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and his knees shook so that he had to steady himself by holding the curtain.

      “Yes, disappointed all. You don’t understand. You think that you know everything. But no; I trusted you with a great deal, but not with all. How dark it is! Hudsley, you are an old man; don’t finish up like—like this. Only one soul in the wide world is sorry that I’m going; and he’s a fool. Poor Jack! I remember——”

      Then followed, half inaudibly, a string of names belonging to the companions of his youth. Most of them were dead and forgotten by him until this hour, when he was about to join their shades.

      “Ah, the old time! the old time. But—but—what was it I was saying? I—I—Hudsley—quick! for Heaven’s sake! I—the key—the key——”

      Stephen came round, in his eagerness risking recognition.

      “The key?” he asked, so hoarsely that his voice might well be taken for an old man’s. “What key?”

      “Feel—under my pillow!” gasped Ralph Davenant.

      Stephen thrust his trembling hand under the pillow, and, with a leap of the heart, felt a key.

      “The safe!” murmured a faltering voice. “The bottom drawer. Bring them to me! Quick!”

      Stephen glided snake-like across the room to a small safe that stood in a recess, opened the door, and with trembling hands drew out the drawer. His hands shook so, his heart beat to such an extent, that as a movement in the next room struck upon his ears, he could scarcely refrain from shrieking aloud; but it was only the nurse, whom the old man would only allow to enter the room at intervals; and setting his teeth hard, and fighting for calm, Stephen took out two documents.

      One was a parchment of goodly proportions.

      Both were folded and endorsed on the back—the parchment with the inscription, “Last will and testament of Ralph Davenant, Gent., Jan. 18—.”

      With eyes that almost refused to do their task, Stephen turned the other paper to the light, and read, “Will, July 18—.” This inscription was written in an old man’s hand—the parchment was engrossed as usual.

      Two wills! The one—the parchment, however, was useless; the other—the sheet of foolscap—was the last.

      “Well,” rose the voice from the bed, hollow and broken, “have you got them?”

      Stephen came up and stood behind the curtain, and held the wills up.

      “Yes, yes,” he said. “The first is—is in whose favor?”

      The old man struggled for breath. White, breathless himself with the agony of anxiety and fear—for any moment someone might enter the room—Stephen stood staring beside him. He dared not undo the tapes and glance at the wills, in case of interruption—dared not conceal them, for Hudsley might appear on the scene. With the wills clasped in his hand, he stood and waited.

      The faintness passed—old Ralph regained his voice.

      “One is parchment—the other is paper. The parchment one you drew up; you know its contents—I want it destroyed, or, stay, keep it. It will add to the deceitful hound’s disappointment. The other—ah, my God—it is too late—Hudsley, there is a cruel history in that paper. No hand but mine could pen it. But—but—I have done justice. Too late!—why do you say—too late? Why do you mock a dying man? Mind, Hudsley, I trust to you. It is a sound will, made in sound body—and—mind. Don’t leave that hypocritical hound a chance of setting it aside. I trust to you. Stop, better burn the first will; burn it here now—now,” and in his excitement he actually raised his head. Raised it to let it drop upon the pillow again with exhaustion.

      Stephen stood and glared, torn this way and that by doubt and uncertainty.

      “Justice,” he whispered hoarsely. “The first will, my will leaves all to——”

      “To that hound Stephen!” gasped the old man. “I did it in a weak moment and repented of it. Leaves all to him; but not now.”

      Stephen hesitated no longer. With the quick, gliding movement of a cat he reached the iron safe, replaced the parchment in the drawer and locked the outer door, and thrust the paper will into his pocket.

      Scarcely had he done so, before he had time to get to his place, the door opened and Hudsley, the lawyer, entered.

      He was an old man, as thin and bent as a withy branch, with a face seamed and wrinkled, like his familiar parchment, with the like spots; his dark, keen gray eyes, which looked out from under his shaggy eyebrows, like stars in a cloudy sky.

      As he entered, Stephen came forward, his back to the light, his face in the shadow, and held out his hand.

      Hudsley took it, held it for a moment, and dropped it with a little, irritable shudder—the slim, white hand was as cold as ice—and, turning to the bed, looked anxiously at the dying man.

      “Great heaven!” he said, “is he dead?”

      A savage hope shot up in Stephen’s heart, but he looked and shook his head.

      “No. You have been a long time coming, Mr. Hudsley.”

      “I have, sir, thanks to your man’s stupidity,” said the lawyer, in an angry whisper. “He came for me in a confounded dogcart!”

      “The quickest vehicle to get ready,” murmured Stephen. “I told him, to take the first that came to hand.”

      “And the result,” said the lawyer impatiently. “The result is that we lost half an hour on the road! Does your man drink, Mr. Stephen?”

      “Drink! Slummers drink!” murmured Stephen. “A most steady, respectable—I may say conscientious—man.”

      “He may be conscientious, but he’s a very bad driver. I never saw such a clumsy fellow. He drove into a ditch half a mile after we had started.”

      “Dear, dear,” murmured Stephen regretfully. “Poor Slummers. It is not his fault. He is a worthy fellow, but too sympathetic, and my uncle’s illness quite upset him——”

      “Hush!” interrupted Mr. Hudsley, holding up his finger and bending down.

      “Squire, do you know me? I am Hudsley.”

      The dying man moved his hand faintly in assent.

      “Yes. Have you done as I told you?”

      “You have told me nothing yet.”

      “The safe!—the key!—the pillow!” said the Squire.

      Hudsley caught his meaning and felt under the pillow, and Stephen, as if to assist, thrust his hand under, and withdrew

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