“Suppose you don’t know me?” said this cool card. “Very likely, as you’ve not seen me in many years. Used to know me, however. Very kind of me to resume the acquaintance. Well, I’ve come to have a talk with you concerning certain matters.”
“Who are you?” demanded Radcliffe, with some spirit.
“Call me—let’s see—Hardscrabble; yes, that is a good enough name. You can call me Hardscrabble, principally because it’s not my name; and when we conclude our little business, I’ll tell you who I am.”
“Well, sir,” said Radcliffe, inquiringly, “is this the way you pay visits?”
“Oh, cut it!” impatiently interrupted the so-called Hardscrabble. “I’m not ceremonious at all. Are you ready to talk?”
“Yes, go on,” said Radcliffe, sinking back in his chair.
He did not care about this interview in the least; but then what could he do about it, when it was requested by a powerful, ruffianly-looking fellow, who could have crushed him without need to have recourse to the weapon in his hand?
“Well, sir,” said Hardscrabble, fixing his bright eyes upon him, “I wish to know whether you have made a will?”
Radcliffe did not answer, but looked at him doubtfully.
“Oh, you might as well talk out,” said this rascally-looking Hardscrabble, “for if you don’t you will force me to bind and gag you, and then go through your private desks and drawers. It would only be natural for an invalid to make a will.”