He dropped her hand and limped quickly to the door, opening it and going out without looking back.
Through the window she saw him pass along the road towards the bank, his head up in the old defiant way, the limp robbing his stride of much of its sturdiness. Without a glance at the cottage he passed out of sight.
Right through the town he walked until he came to the bank.
Harding, looking up at the sound of footsteps, was surprised to see him limping to the counter.
"Good day, Mr. Dudgeon," he exclaimed.
"Do you know how to make a will?" the old man asked, without replying to the greeting.
"That is more the work of a solicitor than a banker, Mr. Dudgeon."
"Oh, I know all about that. If it's going to be a long, muddled, complicated affair a solicitor's the man to go to. But that's not what I want. I want to make a will leaving everything I possess to just one person. I'm no hand with a pen, so I thought you might be able to do it for me."
"Mr. Wallace is inside; perhaps he could advise you better."
"Well, I'll see him."