"Forty thousand dollars!" exclaimed Sharpley, his eyes sparkling with greed. "That's splendid."
"For him, yes. It doesn't do me any good."
"Didn't you say, that in the event of his death the money would go to your wife?"
"Yes."
"He may die."
"So may we. That's more likely. He's a stout boy, as you must have observed, since you have met him."
"Life is uncertain. Suppose he should have a fever, or meet with an accident."
"Suppose he shouldn't."
"My dear Craven," said Sharpley, drawing his chair nearer that of his brother-in-law, "it strikes me that you are slightly obtuse, and you a lawyer, too. Fie upon you! My meaning is plain enough, it strikes me."