He was not sober when Angus entered his untidy little office. At Angus' entrance he stared up with dull eyes from beneath a thick thatch of gray hair which had fallen across his forehead like a horse's forelock. For a moment he had difficulty in identifying his visitor, but succeeded.
"Angus," he muttered, "sure, yes, Angus Mackay. Sit down, Angus. And how is your father?"
"My father is dead, Judge Riley," Angus reminded him.
"Dead!" said the judge, "dead!" His voice altered at the repetition of the word, and his eyes lost a little of their dullness. "Why, I knew that," he muttered to himself, "I knew Mackay was dead. I—I beg your pardon, Angus. Not—not exactly right just now. A little—a little touch of something. All right, presently."
"I'll come in again," Angus said. "I wanted to see you on business."
"Bus'ness?" the judge queried. "Always 'tend to bus'ness. Not so much of it now. State your bus'ness."
Though he did not see much use in doing so in the judge's condition, Angus told him what had happened and asked what powers the executor possessed.
"Exec'tor governed by will," the judge told him. "Never give 'pinion on written instrument without seeing instrument."
"You drew the will yourself, judge—at least it has your name on it."
"Good will, then," said the judge, "perfec'ly good will."