“The will of January—Mr. Stephen——”
Before they could finish, they saw, with horror, the dying man half raise himself, his face livid, his hands wildly clutching the air, his eyes, by accident, turned toward Stephen.
“You—you thief!” he gasped. “Give it to me!—give—give—oh, God! Too late?—too la——”
It was too late. Before the nurse and Jack could rush into the room, horrified by the shriek which rang from Stephen’s white lips, old Ralph Davenant had fallen back dead!
CHAPTER VII.
Half an hour afterward Stephen Davenant passed down the stairs on tiptoe, though the tramp of an armed host could not disturb old Ralph Davenant now—passed down with his hand pressed against his breast pocket, in which lay the stolen will. Had the sheet of blue foolscap been composed of red-hot iron instead of paper, Stephen could not have felt its presence more distinctly and uncomfortably; it seemed to burn right through his clothes and scorch his heart; he could almost fancy, in his overstrained state, that it could be seen through his coat.
He paused a moment outside the library door, one white hand fingering his pale lips, the other vainly striving to keep away from his breast pocket, and listened to the tramp, tramp of Jack as he walked up and down the room. Any other face would have been more endurable than Jack’s, with its fiercely frank gaze and outspoken contempt.
At last he opened the door and entered, his handkerchief in his hand. Jack stopped and looked at him.
“I have been waiting for you,” he said.