"My dear chap," I said, "it's either a lie or else the old boy was as mad as a March hare. Considering he left his money to a publisher, I personally incline to the latter theory."
Bruce sat silent for a minute, scratching his ear. Then he laughed in a rather apologetic sort of fashion.
"You'll think I'm dotty, too," he said, "but do you know, upon my soul, I believe there's something in it."
"Oh, get out!" I said; "and pass me the whisky."
Bruce handed over the bottle.
"I'm not joking," he went on obstinately. "I've got a funny sort of feeling that the old chap was speaking the truth."
"You ought to take something for it," I said. "Mother Seigel or Dr. William's Pink Pills for Neurotic Nephews."
Bruce got up, and, crossing to the mantelpiece, began to fill a pipe. For some moments we both remained silent.
"Well, look here," he broke out at last rather awkwardly, "I'm going to have a wish and see what happens."
I shook my head with a kind of mock disapproval.