One Saturday morning—it was a beautiful day and I was thinking of going out to the club to play golf—I received a long distance call from Osterman asking me to get hold of Klippert and another fellow by the name of Moss and bring them out to Shell Cove, along with the will for him to sign. He had made up his mind, he said, and I have often wondered if he had a premonition of what was going to happen.

“I remember so well how excited Klippert was when I got him on the wire. He was just like a boy, that fellow, in his enthusiasm for the scheme, and apparently not interested in anything except the welfare of those orphans. We started for Shell Cove, and what do you think? Just as we got there—I remember it all as though it had happened yesterday. It was a bright, hot Saturday afternoon. There were some big doings on the grounds, white-and-green and white-and-red striped marque tents, and chairs and swings and tables everywhere. Some of the smartest people were there, sitting or walking or dancing on the balcony. And there was Osterman walking up and down the south verandah near the main motor entrance, waiting for us, I suppose. As we drove up he recognized us, for he waved his hand, and then just as we were getting out and he was walking towards us, I saw him reel and go down. It was just as though some one had struck him with something. I realized that it must be paralysis or a stroke of apoplexy and I chilled all over at the thought of what it might mean. Klippert went up the steps four at a time, and as we all ran down the verandah they carried him in and I telephoned for a doctor. Klippert was very still and white. All we could do was to stand around and wait and look at each other, for Mrs. Osterman and her sons were there and were taking charge. Finally word came out that Mr. Osterman was a little better and wanted to see us, so up we went. He had been carried into an airy, sunny room overlooking the sea and was lying in a big white canopied bed looking as pale and weak as he would if he had been ill for a month. He could scarcely speak and lay there and looked at us for a time, his mouth open and a kind of tremor passing over his lips from time to time. Then he seemed to gather a little strength and whispered: ‘I want—I want—’ and then he stopped and rested, unable to go on. The doctor arrived and gave him a little whisky, and then he began again, trying so hard to speak and not quite making it. At last he whispered: ‘I want—I want—that—that—paper.’ And then: ‘Klippert—and you—’ He stopped again, then added: ‘Get all these others out of here—all but you three and the doctor.’

“The doctor urged Mrs. Osterman and her sons to leave, but I could see that she didn’t like it. Even after she went out she kept returning on one excuse and another, and she was there when he died. When she was out of the room the first time I produced the will and he nodded his approval. We called for a writing board, and they brought one—a Ouija board, by the way. We lifted him up, but he was too weak and fell back. When we finally got him up and spread the will before him he tried to grasp the pen but he couldn’t close his fingers. He shook his head and half whispered: The——the——boys—th—the—boys.’ Klippert was all excited, but Osterman could do nothing. Then his wife came into the room and asked: ‘What is it that you are trying to make poor Johnnie sign? Don’t you think you had better let it rest until he is stronger?’ She tried to pick up the paper but I was too quick for her and lifted it to one side as though I hadn’t noticed that she had reached for it. I could see that she was aware that something was being done that neither we nor Osterman wanted her to know about, and her eyes fairly snapped. Osterman must have realized that things were becoming a little shaky for he kept looking at first one and then another of us with a most unhappy look. He motioned for the pen and will. Klippert put down the board and I the paper, and he leaned forward and tried to grasp the pen. When he found he couldn’t he actually groaned: ‘The—the—I—I—I want to—to—do something—for—for—the—the—the—’ Then he fell back, and the next moment was dead.

“But I wish you could have seen Klippert. It wasn’t anything he said or did, but just something that passed over his face, the shadow of a great cause or idea dying, let us say. Something seemed to go out from or die in him, just as old Osterman had died. He turned and went out without a word. I would have gone too, only Mrs. Osterman intercepted me.

“You might think that at such a moment she would have been too wrought up to think of anything but her husband’s death, but she wasn’t. Far from it. Instead, as her husband was lying there, and right before the doctor, she came over to me and demanded to see the paper. I was folding it up to put into my pocket when she flicked it out of my hands. ‘I am sure you can have no objection to my seeing this,’ she said icily, and when I protested she added: ‘I am sure that I have a right to see my own husband’s will.’ I had only been attempting to spare her feelings, but when I saw what her attitude was I let it go at that and let her read it.

“I wish you could have seen her face! Her eyes narrowed and she bent over the paper as though she were about to eat it. When she fully comprehended what it was all about she fairly gasped and shook—with rage, I think—though fear as to what might have happened except for her husband’s weakness may have been a part of it. She looked at him, at his dead body, the only glance he got from her that day, I’m sure, then at me, and left the room. Since there was nothing more to do, I went too.

“And that’s the reason Mrs. Osterman has never been friends with me since, though she was genial enough before. But it was a close shave for her, all the same, and don’t you think it wasn’t. Just an ounce or two more of strength in that old codger’s system, and think what would have been done with those millions. She wouldn’t have got even a million of it all told. And those little ragamuffins would have had it all. How’s that for a stroke of chance?”

XIII
THE SHADOW

I

What had given him his first hint that all might not be as well at home as he imagined was the incident of the automobile. Up to that time he had not had a troubled thought about her, not one. But after—Well, it was a year and a half now and although suspicion still lingered it was becoming weaker. But it had not been obliterated even though he could not help being fond of Beryl, especially since they had Tickles to look after between them. But anyhow, in spite of all his dark thoughts and subtle efforts to put two and two together, he had not been able to make anything of it. Perhaps he was being unjust to her to go on brooding about it.... But how was it possible that so many suspicious-looking things could happen in a given time, and one never be able to get the straight of them?