Martin Fulmer looked into the faces of the three, and then bent his head in deep thought,—deep and harrowing thought, extending over every instant of twenty-one years.
From the portfolio he drew forth two half sheets of paper, covered with writing in his own hand. One bore the signature of Gabriel Godlike, the other that of Israel Yorke.
"These papers, embracing an absolute renunciation of all their claims upon the Van Huyden estate, they signed before the Court of Ten Millions,—signed, without knowing their contents. Shall I produce them?"
He hesitated.—"But no! no! I am not clear as to the right of any one to dispose of his share."
Martin Fulmer, before the bar of his own conscience, was fanatically just. He might use these papers, but before his own conscience he dared not.
"I am decided," he exclaimed, despair impressed upon his face,—"I must fulfill my oath. Gentlemen, I recognize you as the three heirs of the Van Huyden estate, you having appeared at the appointed hour."
The same electric throb of joy—joy intense to madness,—ran through the bosoms of the three, but manifested itself in different ways. The diminutive financier bounded from his chair; Godlike uttered an oath; Randolph muttered between his teeth, "The negro is, indeed, then, one of the three."
"I will presently give to each of you a certificate, over my own hand, stating that you appeared at the appointed hour, and pledging myself, within a week, to apportion this vast estate among you."
Without taking time to notice the expression of their faces, he continued,—
"But first, we must open this,"—he pointed to the iron chest,—"and this,"—to the coffin, around which, as around the iron chest, tall wax candles were dimly burning. "Whatever these may contain, they cannot affect nor change my decision. But they must be opened,—so the will directs."