“I am going to alter my will,” said Mr Burke.
“Exactly,” said the lawyer, with a slight shrug of the shoulders, which intimated that he was not at all surprised.
“I have drawn up a rough copy of what I want put into legal terms; it is very short and simple; we can get it done to-day, can we not?”
“Certainly, I expect so. Let me see what you wish,” replied Mr Burrows, taking the sheet of note-paper.
Now, do not skip, reader, if you please. If you do you will either have to turn back again from a more interesting chapter, or you will fail to follow the thread of my story. I promise not to bore you with legal terms; only read straight on, as Mr Burrows did.
“I revoke my former will. I now leave to two trustees as much money as will yield 240 pounds a year to be paid monthly to Stephen Philipson, the son of my late wife by a former husband. My land to be sold, and that, with the rest of my property, to be equally divided between my sister, Mary Forsyth, or her heirs, and Reginald Kavanagh.”
“Not long, certainly, as you have put it,” said Mr Burrows, with a smile. “But here is land to be sold, and other descriptions of property to be entered correctly. Can you not give us till the day after to-morrow? If not, I will send the will to you, and you can sign it, and get it witnessed at home.”
“No, no; I had sooner remain in Dublin, and get the thing off my mind at once. The day after to-morrow, then, at this time.”
“It will be all ready by then.”
As he passed through the outer office, the head clerk came from his desk, smiling and bowing obsequiously. He was a young man of dark complexion, and black hair, worn rather long.