“I think he’s going,” she said.
Old Sefton Bulmore was propped up in bed, and looked a very sick man.
“Laddie!” he gasped. “It’s up! Fate’s cheating me—you—you’ve been a real friend—but I’m paying it all back. Here—under my pillow!”
Eliphalet drew from beneath the pillow a scrap of paper, scrawled over with the words, “I bequeath all the interests that will accrue to me from the play, ‘Right Triumphant,’ to my friend, colleague and benefactor, Eliphalet Cardomay.”
“It’s a fortune, o’ man—a fortune.”
Eliphalet took the drooping hand from the coverlet and grasped it.
“It is beautiful of you,” he said.
There was a long silence; then Bulmore stirred slightly.
“Make it a good funeral,” he whispered.
“I will, old man.”