"So it seems," I answered drily. "What have you been drinking for?"
He was sobered in a moment.
"I've touched nothing but a cup of coffee since this morning, sir."
"Then what is the matter with you? What have you found?"
"Mr. Kavanagh, I've found the will!"
"Nonsense! Where?"
"In the house in Wimpole street. Do you recognize this, sir?" he said, drawing a document from his breast-pocket, crumpled and dirtied.
"Merciful heavens! it is the will I drew up!"
"You could swear to it, sir?"
"Yes, ten thousand times yes!" I had it unfolded and laid before me. There was the firm, bold signature of old Gilbert Thorneley; and below the crooked, ill-formed writing of John Barker, footman, and Thomas Spriggs, coachman. In the corner the date, and my own name which I had signed.