CHAPTER XIII
Having finished a late and lazy breakfast next morning, Roger ascended to his father's room. He found the old man lying tranquil if weak, his temperature fallen to normal with that curious abruptness characteristic of typhoid. The nurse, very fresh in a clean apron and cap, was putting the room to rights. She smiled at Roger, who was no longer a stranger, for the two had had a long talk over their coffee the evening before, and later, with Miss Clifford, had indulged in a little mild cutthroat bridge.
"The doctor said something to me last night about your wanting the safe opened," ventured Roger, after several minutes' conversation with the invalid, during which no mention was made of the matter in question.
The old man's face looked blank, he appeared struggling to recall. At last he nodded slowly.
"I believe I did speak of it, though it's not of great importance. It occurred to me I might as well glance through the will I drew up two years ago. I made a slight alteration in it this winter, which I want to speak to you about, but I'll look through it first. Something Sartorius said reminded me of it."
Roger felt relieved. There was no evidence of his father's expecting an immediate decease; he seemed calm and fairly cheerful.
"Right you are. I'll attend to it now, if you'll tell me the combination."
"Give me a piece of paper; I'll write it down."
Roger handed him an envelope and his fountain pen, and watched while the ill man laboriously traced the figures of a simple combination.
"You will find the will in the top left-hand pigeon-hole," Sir Charles instructed him, lying back once more and wearily closing his eyes.