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.”