"His debts," said Mr. Grainger, busy at his spectacles again, "his debts are very heavy, I believe."
"Then doubtless some arrangement can be made to—but continue your reading, I beg," said I.
Mr. Grainger repeated his short, dry cough and taking up the will, slowly and almost as though unwillingly, cleared his throat and began as follows:
"'Furthermore, to my nephew, Peter Vibart, cousin to the above, I will and bequeath my blessing and the sum of ten guineas in cash, wherewith to purchase a copy of Zeno or any other of the stoic philosophers he may prefer.'"
Again Mr. Grainger laid down the will, and again he regarded me over the rim of his spectacles.
"Good God!" cried Sir Richard, leaping to his feet, "the man must have been mad. Ten guineas—why, it's an insult—damme!—it's an insult—you'll never take it of course, Peter."
"On the contrary, sir," said I.
"But—ten guineas!" bellowed the baronet; "on my soul now, George was a cold-blooded fish, but I didn't think even he was capable of such a despicable trick—no—curse me if I did! Why, it would have been kinder to have left you nothing at all—but it was like George—bitter to the end—ten guineas!"
"Is ten guineas," said I, "and when one comes to think of it, much may be done with ten guineas."
Sir Richard grew purple in the face, but before he could speak, Mr.
Grainger began to read again: