The cablegram from Paris had effected a startling transformation in Jimmy Marsh. He was a changed man. No longer the cringing, furtive-eyed bankrupt, ever dodging his creditors, he arose masterfully to the new situation created by the sudden turn in his fortunes. From the hopeless depths of moral and financial ruin the news of his brother's death suddenly raised him to the dollar-marked heights of social prestige and great wealth. At last his long years of waiting were rewarded. John was dead! He was the possessor of millions! All the sweets and power which gold can buy were now his! It seemed too good to be true, and he pinched himself to make sure that it was not all a dream. The excitement and nervous strain proved more than he could bear. Locked in his own room he laughed hysterically and wept aloud—tears of gratitude and joy. His brother was dead! Now, for the first time he could begin to live. He was only fifty. He might still enjoy twenty years more.

The news rushed through the town like a Kansas cyclone. It was the one topic of conversation in clubs, brokers' offices, theatre lobbies, barrooms, and hotel corridors. Jimmy Marsh a millionaire, a power in Wall Street, a personage to be reckoned with! It sounded funny, yet there it was. Men suddenly remembered that Jimmy was not such a bad sort after all, and all day long Mrs. Marsh was kept busy at the telephone answering calls from officious acquaintances who suddenly became very friendly and interested.

Recognizing the propriety of not exhibiting too much joy in public and having little sense of proportion, Jimmy went to the other extreme in his anxiety to observe the conventions. He rushed into violent mourning, and, not content with attiring himself and wife in sombre hue, even to the ridiculous extent of having black borders on his handkerchiefs which he used conspicuously on every possible occasion, he gave peremptory orders that everyone in his household, his chauffeur, his footman, his cook and maids should all be decked in crape. The blinds of the West Seventy-second Street home were tightly drawn and the servants instructed to walk on tiptoe and talk in whispers as in a house of death. Pictures and statuary were covered with black drapery, and a large oil-painting of John Marsh, conspicuous over the mantelpiece in the reception room was likewise covered with crape. These certain outward signs comforted Jimmy. Every day and every hour they convinced him that the death of his brother was not a chimera of his disordered brain, but something very real indeed. This sensation, this assurance he needed to complete his happiness.

The funeral, which was a very quiet affair, took place unostentatiously with Mr. and Mrs. James Marsh as chief mourners. The only others who attended were some of John Marsh's business associates and the Jersey cousins who hurried respectively from Newark and Rahway in the eager expectation that the will would be read on the return from the cemetery. In this, however, they were sadly disappointed. The representative of Bascom Cooley, attorney for the Marsh estate, said that the box containing the will could not be opened until the return from Europe of Mr. Cooley. He had been cabled for and doubtless would return immediately. In any case, nothing could be done now as Mr. Marsh had expressly stipulated that the will should not be opened for three weeks after his death. Jimmy secretly fumed at this delay, but there was nothing to do but wait. He had waited so long that he could afford to wait a little longer.

The days went by with exasperating slowness. It was all Mr. and Mrs. Marsh could do to conceal their growing impatience, and, as the time approached for the formal reading of the will, they each grew more and more agitated. Mr. Cooley, full of importance, arrived from Europe a few days after the funeral. He at once went into prolonged secret sessions with Jimmy, and, when he emerged, his face wore an expression of satisfaction not seen there in a long time. Tod, he announced, was coming by the next steamer.

Jimmy decided to do things in as dramatic and ostentatious a way as possible. He arranged to have the will opened in the library in the presence of the entire family solemnly assembled. In a self-composed, dignified manner he would request Mr. Cooley to read his brother's testament while he, himself, bowed deep in grief in a chair would show proper sorrow by burying his face in his deep black-bordered handkerchief, and listen with thumping heart to the solemn message from the dead which was to make him one of the richest men in New York. The Jersey cousins were invited, of course. He had to invite them. He did not know to what extent, if at all, his brother had remembered them, but it was policy not to ignore them, especially after the little pecuniary services they had rendered. Besides, he did not wish to furnish his relations with any excuse to contest the will. He had nothing to hide. He wanted the whole world to know exactly what the will said and just how his brother had left him the money.

At length the great day arrived. Jimmy, so arrayed in black from head to foot that he looked like an animated raven, wandered from room to room, instructing the new butler, bossing the other servants, admonishing them to move about noiselessly, rehearsing Mrs. Marsh on the demeanor she must observe throughout the proceedings, arranging the mise-en-scÈne in the library where the will would be read. Bascom Cooley, he planned, would take his seat in a dignified manner at the end of the long library table. He and Mrs. Marsh, together with Tod, whose arrival was expected any moment, would take seats farther down the board. The Jersey cousins would be ushered to places slightly in the background. Overhead, dominating the scene, was the oil-painting of John Marsh, swathed in crape.

For the twentieth time, Jimmy, watch in hand, had gone to the front parlor window and drawn aside the blinds to see if Mr. Cooley was coming with the strong box containing the will.

"Tod ought to be here by this time," said Mrs. Marsh anxiously, her eye on the clock. "It is eleven o'clock. The Touraine docked at nine. I ought to have gone to meet him."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed her husband. "He's big enough to look after himself. I sent the motor to the French line dock. He'll be here any moment."

The front door bell rang violently.

"Here he is now!" cried Mrs. Marsh, hurrying forward.

There was the shuffle of many feet and the sound of strange voices in the hall. The next instant the curtains were thrown open by the butler, and a number of people, men and women, dressed in black, entered, smiling and bowing. They were the country cousins, with their sons and daughters, all come to hear the will read. They slouched in one after the other, sheepish-looking and awkward. James and his wife greeted them politely yet distantly. It was impolitic to be over cordial with people who could never be anything but undesirable relations.

The newcomers sat down gingerly on the heavy gilt chairs. Unaccustomed to such fine surroundings, they were visibly nervous and ill at ease. Their new clothes did not fit them, and they felt generally uncomfortable. They had thought it necessary to go into mourning. It was an expense they could ill afford, and the matter had furnished food for endless discussion. But it was finally decided that at least that much respect should be paid to the memory of a dear "uncle" who, they fervently prayed, had not forgotten them. The men wore new, cheap-looking black suits; the wives and daughters had on heavy crape veils.

The preacher from Newark, fat and asthmatic, was out of breath after the quick walk from the Subway.

"Phew!" he puffed, mopping his head with a colored handkerchief which contrasted violently with his sombre garments: "We're not late, are we?"

"Oh, dear no," said Jimmy, greeting everyone with forced politeness. "Mr. Cooley is not here yet. Sit down and make yourselves comfortable."

"I told Mathilda it wasn't no use hurryin'!" exclaimed the reverend gentleman peevishly. "She's always so afraid of missing something."

His wife, a shrewish little woman with a snappy manner, bridled up indignantly. Facing her clerical spouse, she exclaimed:

"Now, Peter, how do you come to talk that way? Wasn't you saying to me all the way along: 'Hurry up or when we gets there like as not we'll find they've done us out of what's comin' to us?'"

The preacher reddened and coughed uneasily:

"No—no—my dear—nothing of the kind. You misunderstood me——"

"I heard you, Dad," piped the falsetto voice of his daughter, a gawky girl of eighteen.

The situation was rapidly becoming strained, and it was a relief to Jimmy when his wife came to the rescue by offering the visitors some liquid refreshment. Mrs. Thomas Marsh, wife of the Newark haberdasher, a tall, angular woman with a shrill, masculine voice, accepted with alacrity:

"Thank m'm, I don't care if I does. You know I hate funerals, I'm that spooky. They allus gives me the creeps. Not that I ever seed nothin', but I'm just afeerd. Glass of brandy? Yes—thank you, m'm. I wouldn't have come to-day, but for Tom's coaxing. He worried and worried——"

"But my dear madam," interposed Mr. James Marsh, somewhat scandalized. "This is not a funeral. We've met here merely to listen to the reading of my lamented brother's will."

Mrs. Thomas chuckled, paying no attention to her husband, who kept nudging her to be quiet.

"Uncle John's will! Well—don't wills and death go together? There's no will readin' without a death, is there? That's why these meetings are spooky." Flopping down on one of the chairs, she demanded: "How long will we have to wait?"

"Directly my lawyer arrives," he replied, trying to control his temper. "He won't be long now."

An awkward silence followed. Each looked at the other while Jimmy, who was growing more and more nervous, paced restlessly from table to window. Mrs. Marsh, overheated from excitement, was busy giving final instructions to the servants to leave them undisturbed once the reading had begun. The country cousins and their offspring took advantage of the preoccupation of their hosts to glance furtively round the room, making muffled exclamations as they attracted each other's attention to the richness of the furnishings, watching open-mouthed the going and coming of the solemn-faced butler, who, together with his master, was on the alert for the arrival of the much-desired Mr. Cooley.

The reverend gentleman from Rahway nudged his wife.

"I wonder if there's goin' to be anythin' doin' in the eatin' line?" he whispered. "Buryin' people and business of this sort always puts my appetite on edge."

"Really, Peter—you surprise me!" exclaimed his wife with asperity. "What do you think this is—an Irish wake?"

She lapsed into a dignified silence and glued her eyes on the clock. In another corner of the room the haberdasher's wife, with whom Mrs. Peter was not on speaking terms, was cogitating thoughtfully on what the will might and might not contain. Turning to the haberdasher, she said in a low tone:

"We'll look sweet if he hasn't left us anything."

Her husband put on an injured expression.

"Say, Mary," he grumbled, "can't you be a little more cheerful?"

This playful badinage between the cousins might have been kept up for some time, only, suddenly, there came two sharp rings at the front entrance. There was no mistaking that ring. The mark of the lawyer was written all over it. The cousins, as if detected in some impropriety, sat up with a start. Jimmy, thrusting aside the heavy tapestry curtains, rushed out into the hall and a moment later reappeared, escorting triumphantly Mr. Bascom Cooley, who held in his right hand a small tin security box.

The collective gaze of the country cousins was at once concentrated on the tin box. Instinctively they guessed that it contained the one all important document—the last instructions of their dear lamented uncle, the late John Marsh, regarding the disposition of his fortune.

Mr. Cooley, full of his usual bluster, advanced briskly into the room. Barely deigning to notice those present and ignoring utterly Jimmy's formal introductions, he proceeded at once to the place prepared for him at the head of the table, and banged the tin box down in front of him. Then with a patronizing gesture, meant to be amiable, he invited the others to take their places. When the shuffling of feet had ceased and everything was perfectly still he turned to his host and began pompously:

"My dear friend and client, we have met here to-day for the performance of a painful but very necessary duty—to ascertain your late brother's wishes in regard to the disposition of his estate——"

Deeming this a proper moment to display brotherly feeling, Jimmy drew from his pocket the black-bordered handkerchief and buried his face in its more or less soiled folds. The cousins, not knowing what was expected of them, began to study closely the pattern of the green cloth which covered the table. Clearing his throat as a preliminary to further oratorical flights, Mr. Cooley went on:

"Yes—I know what you feel at this solemn moment, friend. You feel that if the dead could only be called back to life, you would cheerfully relinquish the wealth to which the grim Reaper has made you heir. But that cannot be. We must accept without question the decree of an inscrutable Providence. Your brother loved you, James—for that I can vouch. He was a silent, reserved man and kept strangely aloof from the world, but his heart was in the right place. On the few occasions when he took me into his confidence, he spoke most affectionately of you—his only brother. You alone were in his thoughts when he had under consideration the important duty of making his will——"

The cousins looked at each other blankly and shifted uneasily on their seats. The lawyer went on:

"One day—now some twenty-five years ago—John Marsh sent for me to go to Pittsburg. When I arrived he handed me a sheet of note paper with some lines hurriedly scribbled on it—the draft for his will. 'Cooley,' he said, 'this is the way I want to leave my money.' Two days later the will was signed." Tapping the box in front of him, he added impressively: "It has been in this box ever since. Mr. Marsh, with your permission, I shall now open the box and read the will."

Jimmy, his heart pumping so furiously that he feared his neighbors must notice it, gave a quick gesture of assent. Mrs. Marsh grew a shade paler under her cosmetics. The cousins shuffled closer to the table. The psychological moment had arrived.

"One moment!" cried Jimmy. Rising quickly and going to the door, he called the butler:

"Wilson, I don't wish to be disturbed on any pretext whatever. Keep this door shut, and don't allow any one to enter no matter who it is."

Returning to his seat, he gave the lawyer a sign to proceed.

Calmly, deliberately, Mr. Cooley inserted a key in the lock. The lid flew open, revealing a number of papers within. The lawyer picked out a formidable-looking folded document, yellow with age. The cousins gasped. Instinctively every one knew that it was the will. Unfolding it slowly, Mr. Cooley looked up to see if all were paying attention. Then, clearing his husky throat, he began to read in impressive, ministerial style:

Crash! Bang! In the hall outside there was the sound of shattered glass and the angry slamming of doors. Mr. Cooley stopped reading and, looking up, glared at the others in indignant surprise. This was rank sacrilege! He wondered if he couldn't get some one committed for contempt of court. The cousins, not sure whether they should be satisfied or not with Uncle John's remembrance of them, gazed at each other in consternation. Jimmy, wrathful at this flagrant disregard of his explicit orders, rose to investigate. Outside in the hall could be heard the voice of the new butler raised in loud altercation with someone whose entrance into the library he was trying to prevent.

"Get out of my way! I tell you I will go in!" exclaimed an angry voice.

"It's Tod!" cried Mrs. Marsh, rising.

The library door was flung unceremoniously open and in walked Tod, trying to staunch with his handkerchief the blood which flowed freely from a cut finger. He was somewhat dishevelled after a lively scrimmage with the butler who, not recognizing him as a member of the family, had literally obeyed his master's instructions and attempted to bar the way. It was a poor welcome home, but he was cheery and good natured as ever. Kissing his mother boisterously, he said:

"Hallo, mater! How are you? Say—that new butler of yours is a bird—tried to keep me from coming in here to see you. Just think of it! So I smashed him against the glass door and cut my finger." Looking around, a broad grin spread over his face. With well acted surprise, he exclaimed: "Why, what's going on here? Looks like a prayer meeting!" Nodding familiarly to the lawyer and Mr. Marsh, he called out: "Hello—Cooley! Hello Jimmy!"

James Marsh, his face pale with suppressed irritation, snapped impatiently:

"We waited for you all morning. I told the butler to let no one come in. A disturbance of this kind is most annoying." Turning to the lawyer, he added: "Now, Mr. Cooley, will you please continue——"

"What are you all doing?" grinned Tod.

"Please be quiet, Tod," said his mother, pulling him by the sleeve. "Take a chair and listen. Mr. Cooley is reading the will."

"The will?" echoed Tod innocently. "What will?"

"John Marsh's will, of course. Really, Tod, what makes you so stupid?"

Exasperated, inwardly raging, Mr. Marsh made a sign to Mr. Cooley to proceed with the reading. The lawyer thus urged, resumed. In a loud voice he repeated:

"That's not John Marsh's will!" cried Tod, again interrupting.

"Not the will!" exclaimed the cousins, aghast.

"Not my brother's will!" cried Jimmy, his face blanching.

"Not the will—what do you mean, sir?" roared Bascom Cooley.

"Just what I say!" replied Tod doggedly. "That scrap of yellow parchment is only good for the waste-paper basket. John Marsh was married, and has a daughter living. Before he died he made a new will, leaving every cent to her!"