"No--no; certainly not," said Dr. Rane.
Richard North said good-day and left. Just before turning in at the gates of Dallory Hall, he met a gig containing Lawyer Dale of Whitborough, who was driving somewhere with his clerk; no other than Timothy Wilks. Mr. Dale pulled up, to speak.
"Can it be true that George Massey is dead?" questioned Richard as they were parting.
"It's true enough, poor fellow. He died yesterday: was ill but two days."
"I've just heard it at Dr. Rane's. He received a letter this morning to tell him of it."
"Dr. Rane did? I was not aware they knew each other."
"Nor did they. But they were both in that tontine. Now that George Massey's gone, Dr. Rane and his wife are the only two remaining in it. Rather singular that it should be so."
For a minute Mr. Dale could not recollect whether he had ever heard of this particular tontine; although, being a lawyer, he made it his business to know everything; and he and Richard talked of it together. Excessively singular, Lawyer Dale agreed, that a tontine should be practically useless to a man and his wife--unless one of them died.
"Very mortifying, I must say, Mr. Richard North; especially where the money would be welcome. Two thousand pounds! Dr. Rane must wish the senseless thing at Hanover. I should, I know, if it were my case. Good-morning."
And quiet Timothy Wilks, across whom they talked, heard all that was said, and unconsciously treasured it up in his memory.