'Give me the will.'
Foster advanced the sheet of paper, on the blotting-pad, and a pen, newly dipped in ink. To the pen the sick man paid no heed.
'The will?'
'Here is the will.'
'Give it--to me.'
The lawyer held out the sheet of paper. The sick man took it, and tore it in half. It was rather a niggling process: he made one or two abortive attempts. But the result was unmistakable. Two crumpled fragments represented the document which Foster had deemed of such importance. Its destroyer made a single remark.
'I--hate--wills.'
The lawyer's face was a study. There was a common feeling that Violet's behaviour had something to do with what had happened. I think that for little he would have told her so, in language of vigour. Perhaps her own conscience assailed her. She whispered to Reggie:
'What's he torn?'
'His will.'