“You’ve struck it. That’s just what it is. The draft of my will. And—I want you to read it.”
“Why?”
“Because I want your opinion, man—doesn’t it stand to reason?”
“See here, Luke,” said the other, and there was a twinkle in his eye. “Aren’t you afraid of the much-abused priest who is supposed to be always poking his nose into other people’s business and interfering in family matters? You know.”
“I only know that you are talking bosh when you ought to be serious, Dick. Do run through that paper and make any remarks on it you like.”
“Well, if you really wish it,” said the Canon, serious enough now, as he got out his glasses, and began to peruse attentively the masses of legal jargon which covered up the testator’s designs. He had not got far, however, before he came upon that which perturbed him not a little, but of such his trained impassive countenance betrayed no sign. Sir Luke sat looking out of the window, watching the thrushes hopping about the lawn.
“Well?” he said at last, but not extending a hand to receive the document which the other was holding out to him.
“You have altered all your former dispositions,” said the Canon.
“Yes. I have been thinking things carefully over. I daren’t trust him, that scamp. He has simply gone from bad to worse, and would make ducks and drakes of the lot. Percival won’t.”
“That scamp!” The hardly perceptible quiver in his old friend’s voice as he uttered the word, did not escape the shrewd ecclesiastic. Indeed, to that skilled and experienced master of human nature in all its phases, the state of his friend’s mind at this moment was a very wide open book.