"Please read what I have written upon the envelope."
The doctor, his attention called to the envelope, read, inscribed in large, distinct characters:
"Not to be opened till six months after my death."
"I see you want an explanation," said the colonel. "Here it is—the paper contained in this envelope is an important one. I won't tell you what it is. When you come to open it, it will explain itself."
"But, colonel, you are likely to live as long as I. In that case, I can't follow your directions."
"Of course, we can't tell the duration of our lives. Still, I think you will outlive me. If not, I shall reclaim the paper. Meanwhile, I shall be glad to have you take charge of it for me."
"Of course I will. It is a slight favor to ask."
"It may prove important. By the way, there is no need of telling anyone, unless, perchance, your wife. I don't want to force you to keep anything secret from her. Mrs. Townley, I know, may be depended upon."
"I think she may. Well, Colonel Preston, set your mind at rest. I will take care of the paper."
When Colonel Preston died, not long afterward, the doctor naturally thought of the paper, and, as no will was left, it occurred to him that this might be a will; but, in that case, he couldn't understand why he should have been enjoined to keep it six months before opening it. On the whole, he concluded that it was not a will.