The Velvet Glove

by Henry Seton Merriman

The notary was at his table again, and seemed to seek his cue by an upward glance.

"You will, perhaps, leave your fortune," he suggested at length, "to--to some good work."

But Evasio Mon was shaking his head.

"To--to--?" began the notary once more, and then lapsed into a puzzled silence. He was at fault again. Mogente seemed to be failing. He lay quite still, looking straight in front of him.

"The Count Ramon de Sarrion," he asked suddenly, "is he in Saragossa?"

"No," answered the notary, after a glance into the darkened door. "No--but your will--your will. Try and remember what you are doing. You wish to leave your money to your son?"

"No, no."

"Then to--your daughter?"

And the question seemed to be directed, not towards the bed, but behind it.

"To your daughter?" he repeated more confidently. "That is right, is it not? To your daughter?"