“What for—what for, eh? No, no; I can do what I want with little help; and I have had nearly all I want done; and you can do the rest. It’s about money, Tom; and you always worshipped it—always—always. Now look here, Tom,” he continued, going back to the bureau and taking out a large envelope; “that’s my will, Tom, and I want it witnessed; d’ye hear, Tom?—witnessed. I’ve had it made for years; and it only wants another signature and then I think it will do, and it will be off my mind and be at rest; for I want to finish my reform work, Tom,—reform—reform—reform. Now look here, Tom; but see first that there’s no one listening at the door.”
Doctor Hardon rose and went across the room upon the points of his toes, peered out into the passage, closed the door silently, and then returned smiling, without having made a sound. But the smile of self-satisfaction at his successful management gave way the next moment to a look of astonishment, and then of anger, as Octavius exclaimed, “You sleek-looking, tom-cat humbug, you! I almost wish I had not sent for you—you treacherous-looking, smooth-coated rascal!”
Doctor Hardon turned almost purple with rage, but by an effort he choked it down.
“So you are, Tom; so you are,” snarled the old man, watching him keenly, and enjoying his discomfiture; “but you can’t afford to be affronted, Tom, can you?”
The doctor tried to laugh it off. “You always did love to tease me, Octy,” he said, with a twist of his whole body, as if the mental torture shot through every nerve.
“Tease!” snarled the old man—“yes; call it teasing if you like; but look here,” he said, drawing out the will, and folding it back so that only the bottom was visible—“bring that pen and ink, and come to the table here and sign;” and then he placed both hands tightly upon the paper, holding it down upon the table, and just leaving room for his brother to sign his name, all the while watching him suspiciously.
Doctor Hardon took the inkstand from a side-table, and placed it beside the will, glancing as he did so at the paper, but only to gaze upon the blank space. He then drew out a morocco case, and set at liberty an elaborate pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, ignoring for the time being the hand some double eyeglass hanging by a black ribbon from his neck. The glasses were wiped upon a delicately-scented cambric handkerchief; there was a soft professional cough given as they were fitted in their place; and then, taking a fresh dip of ink, the doctor again advanced majestically towards the table.
All this while Octavius Hardon had been watching his every action with a cynical smile upon his withered face, apparently deriving great pleasure from the ostentatious performance of his brother.
“Why don’t you purr, eh, Tom?” he snarled; “why don’t you purr, eh?”
Doctor Hardon tried to laugh pleasantly, but it was only a fat copy of his brother’s snarl; and then, once more dipping the pen, he leant over the table, placing a hand upon the paper, while at the same moment Octavius slid one of his own on one side, to give more room—perhaps to save it from touching the doctor’s plump, white, beringed digits.