“He wants you, my boy. You must go down at once. It is very important. Tom Craik was buried yesterday.”
“Buried!” exclaimed George. “I did not know he was dead.”
“I understand that he died several days ago, in consequence of that fit of anger he had. You remember? What is the matter with you, George?”
“Cannot you see what is the matter?” George cried a little impatiently. “I am just finishing my book. What if the old fellow is dead? He has had plenty of leisure to change his will—in all this time. What does Sherry want?”
“He did not change his will, and Mr. Trimm wants to read it to you. George, you do not seem to realise that you are a very rich man, a very, very rich man,” repeated Jonah Wood with weighty emphasis.
“It will do quite as well if he reads the confounded thing to you,” said George, picking up his pen from the floor beside him, examining the point and then dipping it into the ink.
He was never quite sure how much of his indifference was assumed and how much of it was real, resulting from his extreme impatience to finish his work. But to Jonah Wood, it had all the appearance of being genuine.
“I am surprised, George,” said the old gentleman, looking very grave. “Are you in your right mind? Are you feeling quite well? I am afraid this good news has upset you.”
George rose from the table with a look of disgust, bent down and looked over the last lines he had written, and then stood up.
“If nothing else will satisfy anybody, I suppose I must go down,” he said regretfully. “Why did not the old brute leave the money to you instead of to me? You do not imagine I am going to keep it, do you? Most of it is yours anyhow.”