“Was it all drawn out then?—I am putting these questions to you quite informally.”
“It was all written out, except the signatures. Jacob showed us that it was so written, though he did not allow us to see the wording. But he showed us plainly that there was nothing to do but to sign. Then he laid it on the desk, covered most of the sheet of paper with a piece of blotting paper and signed his name in our presence—I stood on one side of him, Mr. Burchill on the other. Then Mr. Burchill signed in his place—beneath mine.”
“And this,” asked Mr. Halfpenny, pointing to the will, “this is your signature?”
“Most certainly!” answered Mr. Tertius.
“And this,” continued Mr. Halfpenny, “is Jacob Herapath’s?—and this Mr. Burchill’s? You have no doubt about it?”
“No more than that I see and hear you,” replied Mr. Tertius. “I have no doubt.”
Mr. Halfpenny turned from Mr. Tertius to Barthorpe Herapath. But Barthorpe’s face just then revealed nothing. Therefore the old lawyer turned towards Burchill. And suddenly a sharp idea struck him. He would settle one point to his own satisfaction at once, by one direct question. And so he—as it were by impulse—thrust the will before and beneath Burchill’s eyes, and placed his finger against the third signature.
“Mr. Burchill,” he said, “is that your writing?”
Burchill, calm and self-possessed, glanced at the place which Mr. Halfpenny indicated, and then lifted his eyes, half sadly, half deprecatingly.
“No!” he replied, with a little shake of the head;“No, Mr. Halfpenny, it is not!”