"Yet it has; I awoke this morning a poor man. To-night I am rich."
"You—haven't been speculating?" said Walton, curiously.
"No; I had no money to speculate with. But to-day a fortune has come to me."
"A fortune! How much?"
"One hundred thousand dollars!" answered the physician.
"A hundred thousand dollars!" ejaculated Nicholas Walton, staring at his brother-in-law in amazement.
"Yes."
"Explain yourself—that is, if you are not joking."
"Fortunately it is not a joke. As to the explanation, here it is: Some years ago I was called, when a young practitioner in New York (I began here, you know), to attend a wealthy West Indian planter, boarding at the New York Hotel. He was critically sick, and required constant attention. I had little to do, and devoted myself to him. He was convinced that he owed his life to me. He paid me handsomely then, and requested me to keep him apprised of my whereabouts. I have done so. Yesterday I received a letter, requesting me to come to New York, and call at a certain room in the Fifth Avenue Hotel. I did so. I found a Cuban gentleman, who, first apprising me that my former patient was dead, added, to my amazement, that he had left me in his will one hundred thousand dollars. Furthermore, he had the amount with him in negotiable securities, and transferred them at once to my hands."