The half-hour elapsed, and Faxon, rejoicing at the near prospect of food, set out to make his way to the dining-room. He had not noticed the direction he had followed in going to his room, and was puzzled, when he left it, to find that two staircases, of apparently equal importance, invited him. He chose the one to his right, and reached, at its foot, a long gallery such as Rainer had described. The gallery was empty, the doors down its length were closed; but Rainer had said: “The second to the left,” and Faxon, after pausing for some chance enlightenment which did not come, laid his hand on the second knob to the left.
The room he entered was square, with dusky picture-hung walls. In its centre, about a table lit by veiled lamps, he fancied Mr. Lavington and his guests to be already seated at dinner; then he perceived that the table was covered not with viands but with papers, and that he had blundered into what seemed to be his host’s study. As he paused in the irresolution of embarrassment Frank Rainer looked up.
“Oh, here’s Mr. Faxon. Why not ask him——?”
Mr. Lavington, from the end of the table, reflected his nephew’s smile in a glance of impartial benevolence.
“Certainly. Come in, Mr. Faxon. If you won’t think it a liberty——”
Mr. Grisben, who sat opposite his host, turned his solid head toward the door. “Of course Mr. Faxon’s an American citizen?”
Frank Rainer laughed. “That’s all right!... Oh, no, not one of your pin-pointed pens, Uncle Jack! Haven’t you got a quill somewhere?”
Mr. Balch, who spoke slowly and as if reluctantly, in a muffled voice of which there seemed to be very little left, raised his hand to say: “One moment: you acknowledge this to be——?”
“My last will and testament?” Rainer’s laugh redoubled. “Well, I won’t answer for the ’last.’ It’s the first one, anyway.”
“It’s a mere formula,” Mr. Balch explained.