I marvelled. I remembered how rich he was. I could not refrain from suggesting that he had remaining all the real property. "And," I added, "I understood, my lord, that the testator's personalty was sworn under four hundred thousand pounds."
"You talk nonsense!" he snarled. "Look at the legacies! Five thousand here, and a thousand there, and hundreds like berries on a bush! It is a fortune, a decent fortune, clean frittered away! A barren title is all that will be left to me!"
What was he going to do? His face was gloomy, his hands were twitching. "Who are the witnesses, my lord?" I asked in a low voice.
So low--for under certain conditions a tone conveys much--that he shot a stealthy glance towards the door before he answered, "John Williams."
"Blind," I replied in the same low tone.
"William Williams."
"He is dead. He was Mr. Wigram's valet. I remember reading in the newspaper that he was with his master, and was killed by the Indians at the same time."
"True. I fancy that that was the case," he answered huskily. "And the handwriting is Lord Wetherby's."
I assented.
Then for fully a minute we were silent, while he bent over the will, and I stood behind him looking down at him with thoughts in my mind which he could no more fathom than the senseless wood upon which I leaned. Yet I mistook him. I thought him, to be plain, a scoundrel; and--so he was--but a mean one. "What is to be done?" he muttered at length, speaking rather to himself than to me.