“How can I serve you, Sir Richard?” I asked, briskly. “I see there is something troubling you.”
“Is it as apparent as that?” he asked, trying to appear unconcerned: but his strong, homely features belied his effort at calmness.
Before I could reply, he went on:
“But never mind that: I want you to write my will—now.”
“Your will?” My expression of surprise and incredulity was natural, for since I had been retained by him I had marked it as one of his few idiosyncrasies that he had never made his will. When I had mentioned to him the advisability of doing so, he had put it by with a whimsical remark about being superstitious.
“I am in earnest,” he declared, “and it will be very simple—just a brief form, and I’ll sign it with my man as witness.”
“But why the haste?” I said. “Why not wait till I can have the document properly drawn up at my office tomorrow—”
“No; now!” he said, and there was such finality in his tone I had no choice.
My concern for my client, whom I really liked and respected immensely, prompted me to ask:
“You’re not ill, Sir Richard?”