The prelate covered his eyes.
"Dear me," he said. "Dear me. I blame myself very much. I should have sent the document after him, of course. His address was there. I quite intended to. But I had to leave for Vienna very suddenly upon the next day. Instead of the days I had expected, I was away for months. I only returned upon the eve of the explosion——"
"And, naturally, you forgot all about it. So did I. The merest accident brought the whole thing to my mind."
"Accidents all the way," said the priest.
The Judge smiled.
"It looks like it," he agreed. "To be short, I came across the man in whose favour our will was made. Such a nice-looking fellow—obviously without a penny. Earning his living as a servant. Lyveden, his name was—Anthony Lyveden. Don't let me raise your hopes. I've lost him again—utterly. But everything's happening in the right order. It was no good finding him just to make his mouth water."
"But the other will," said his guest. "What about that? Haven't its provisions been given effect to?"
"That," said Sir Giles, tapping him on the shoulder, "is the beauty of it. We're upsetting nobody. The other will leaves Lyveden every penny, provided he becomes a Knight."
"What an infamous condition!"
"There you have the story. Upon what he believes to be his deathbed, the old fellow repents his harshness. Recovered, our Pharaoh hardens his heart and lets the old will stand. 'The Devil was sick, the Devil a monk would be.'"