He shook his head, with the ghost of a smile on his rugged face.
“Physically—no. But—”
He paused, and after a moment he again urged me to proceed with the making of the will.
I drew up the document, which was a simple one, leaving the bulk of his large properties to his sister in Surrey, with numerous small bequests to friends and distant relatives, and a handsome sum and his private collection to the British Museum and the Imperial Museum of Egyptology. We had in his man, and the document was duly signed, after which he drew a long breath of relief and, with a return of something like his natural manner, passed me his cigar-case and leaned back in his chair, smoking comfortably.
“I’ve a story to tell you, Madden,” he said between puffs, “and it’s a queer yarn, too. You’ll think—but never mind. Listen first, and say what you like afterward. Only—” he glanced about him with an apprehensive expression that fairly set my nerves atingle. “I hope we have time.”
“Time for what?” I asked.
He relaxed again and smiled:
“It’s all right,” he declared. “I’m a bit nervous, I guess, but it’s all right. Have another brandy.”
We drank solemnly together. Then he settled back once more and I prepared to listen.
“Madden,” said he, “perhaps you’ll smile at what has seemed to me serious enough to warrant the steps I have just taken—making my will, I mean—but, however you look at it, I want you to know it’s true—every word of it.