While these thoughts flashed through my brain I remained perfectly still, with my face averted. It was desirable that I should have my countenance under perfect control, before I let him see it. I spoke to him from where I stood.

'Ah, Foster, is that you?'

'If you look this way, you'll see.'

Thus directly challenged, I looked. He was a big, burly man, in appearance not at all like the typical lawyer. His clothes always had a sort of agricultural cut. Anybody seeing him in the street for the first time would have taken him for a shrewd, hard-headed, and--in spite of agricultural depression--prosperous farmer; the tiller, probably, of his own acres. His hair, still abundant, and which he parted neatly on one side, was white as snow; in his keen flashing eyes, in spite of his seventy odd years, there was yet what always seemed to me to be the light of battle. I met his glance without, I think, a sign of flinching, though I would rather have seen him buried than, at that moment, there.

'To know you, Foster, it is not necessary to see you when one hears your voice.'

Without replying, coming to my side, he looked down with me, at the figure on the bed. After a while he spoke.

'What were you doing to him, Mr. Howarth?'

'I was trying to wake him out of sleep.'

'He looks to me as if nothing could awake him now.'

'Foster! You don't mean--that he is dead?'

Nothing could have pleased me less than such a consummation. If Mr. Babbacombe had elected to die in such an extremely irregular fashion he certainly did not deserve the balance of that thousand pounds. I had stipulated that the end should take place in the presence of others; and, by inference, after they had been afforded an opportunity of satisfying themselves as to his being the actual Simon Pure. Otherwise, in the future all sorts of questions might arise,--not to mention the fact that, after what Foster had apparently seen, I might find myself in a position of distinct discomfort. The lawyer voiced my thought, as if he had perceived it in my mind.

'It would be rather unfortunate for you if he should be dead.'

'Unfortunate for all of us.'

'Particularly for you. You were subjecting him to rather vigorous treatment. Better men have been killed by less.'

I turned and faced him, not feeling disposed to be brow-beaten by him.

'Foster, what do you mean?'

'Weren't you shaking him?'

'Shaking him! Foster! I was simply placing him in a more comfortable position.'

'Ah! And this is the position you have placed him in.'

'Your words and tone, Mr. Foster, require explanation.'

'Which they shall receive at the proper time and place. In the meantime, don't you think you'd better send for a doctor? Or shall I?'

Luckily Mr. Babbacombe proved himself to be possessed of more sense than I had begun to fear. He returned to life. Whether actuated or not by the newcomer's remarks and manner I cannot say; but he did. Just as we seemed to be on the verge of a really unseemly wrangle, without altering his position in the least, he opened his eyes, looked up at us, and spoke.

'Hollo, Foster? Is that you?'

It was excellently done; wonderfully clever. In the sudden rush of my relief I decided that his honorarium should be increased. It showed that he had kept his ears wide open, or he would hardly have known that his visitor's name was Foster. I only hoped that he had gained, from what had passed, some idea of who he was, and what was the position he occupied, without its being necessary for me to drop too plain a hint. However, the agile Mr. Babbacombe proved himself equal to the occasion. The man-of-affairs stood looking down at him before he answered.

'I am glad, my Lord Marquis, that you know me.'

'Know you? Why shouldn't I know you? Hang you, Foster!'

Instinct had supplied Mr. Babbacombe with at least one of Twickenham's habits of speech, his trick of rounding off nearly every sentence he uttered with what one might call, by courtesy, an apostrophe.

'I am sorry, my lord, to see you looking so unwell.'

'I am going to die.'

'I trust, and believe, that it is not so bad with you as that. Where has your lordship been during all these years?'

'Playing with the fires.'

'Playing with the fires?' The lawyer repeated the words as if in doubt as to their meaning. But a glance at the speaker's face made it clear to him that the answer was perhaps not so far out as it might have been. 'Is your lordship married?'

'What the devil's that to do with you? One can't marry all of 'em.'

'But you can marry one of them. Have you done that?' There came no answer from the bed. 'I would point out to your lordship that you are in a somewhat serious condition. Should anything happen to your lordship----'

'I'm going to die.'

'We trust not: but should such a misfortune be in store for us, it is of still more importance that your affairs should be in order. I would remind you that what you have been doing during the last fifteen years is known only to yourself. Are you married?'

'Curse the women!'

Why, I wondered, could not the idiot answer No?

'If your lordship pleases. But that is not an answer to my question. You must be well aware that the fact of your having a wife, with issue, would materially alter your brother's position.'

'Let him have it all.'

'You wish Lord Reginald to inherit your whole estate, real and personal? Does that mean you're not married?'

'Foster, did you--ever know--me answer questions--when I didn't want to. I'm not--dead yet.'

This was so like Twickenham that it set me thinking. Indeed, as the conversation between the pair proceeded I became more and more puzzled to find an answer to the question--Who is the man in the bed? Foster stuck to his guns.

'Has your lordship made a will?'

'I hate wills.'

'Possibly; yet they are necessary instruments. If you have not already made a will, you must make one now. Your lordship will tell me how you wish matters to stand. I will draw up a brief, yet sufficient form, which you can complete at once.'

'Kick him, Doug.'

This was again so like Twickenham that I had no option but to smile. Foster surveyed me with grave disapprobation. He drew me a little apart.

'This is no laughing matter, Mr. Howarth. I believe you represent Lord Reginald's interests. I can only tell you that they will be very seriously imperilled if we are not able to show that he has been formally appointed his brother's heir. You have witnessed the Marquis's refusal to answer my question as to whether he is or is not married. What meaning does that refusal convey to your mind?'

'None whatever. It's just Twickenham--that's all; and you know it.'

'But suppose he has a wife and children.'

'He hasn't.'

'Then why doesn't he say so?'

'Because he never would impart information to any one, on any subject whatever. Have you forgotten that that was one of his many forms of crankiness?'

'Still it is not outside the bounds of possibility that he has a wife and, say, a son. If they appeared upon the scene, with no will in existence, they would have everything. Lord Reginald would have nothing at all.'

'That would be hard on Reggie.'

'If you have his real interests at heart--which I have no reason to doubt'--he grinned--'you will assist me in persuading the Marquis to express his wishes in proper form--that is, make a will--without further delay. At present he is perfectly capable of doing so; but an hour may make all the difference, and if he dies intestate Lord Reginald will have plenty of trouble in front of him.'

Complications were crowding on me in a fashion which was unexpected. I had never counted on Mr. Babbacombe's having to make a will. There was sound sense in what Foster said; on the other hand, considerable risk might attend my urging Mr. Babbacombe to commit forgery. Always supposing, that is, he was not Twickenham. If he was, why, then----

I decided, having glanced at the situation, so far as I was able, all round, outwardly, at least, to join hands with Foster in endeavouring to persuade the invalid to comply with his request. To have refused, without any apparently valid reason, would have been to rouse his always active suspicions. And also, it did occur to me that if a will was made and Mr. Babbacombe, after death, did prove himself too keen in the direction of blackmail--I never for a moment lost sight of the fact that, thousand pounds or no thousand pounds, out of this little performance Mr. Babbacombe proposed, in all probability, to provide himself with a sufficient income for the rest of his life--that will might be used to keep him within the paths of reason. It was bad enough to enter into a conspiracy of the kind to which he was committed; it was, if anything, a trifle worse to forge a will; and such a will--as, later on, it might be necessary to inform him.

He proved, however, as I might have expected, too old a bird to be caught with salt. When Foster and I brought our combined forces to bear on the attack we found that he was asleep again. He had fallen into another of those profound dozes, out of which it was so difficult to wake him. Foster spoke to him; then I. He paid no heed to either; as before, he was deaf, dumb, and blind.

'Well,' I inquired, when it was plain that no verbal assault would reach him, 'what's to be done now? Would you like to shake him?'

Foster compressed his lips; he was plainly annoyed.

'It's easy for you to laugh now; I doubt if it will prove a laughing matter to Lord Reginald.--Do you think he really is asleep?'

'That is exactly the question I was putting to myself when you came in. I also had a few remarks to make which I had a shrewd suspicion he did not choose to hear.'

'What did you wish to say?'

'My dear Foster, I take at least as much interest in the Marquis of Twickenham as you can do. I'm just as anxious to find out things. I thought then, as I think now, that he intends I shall find out nothing; or you either. He's been a hard nut to crack his whole life long; he means to continue uncrackable to the end.'

'He seems very ill.'

'He does not seem well.'

'As he lies there like that he looks as if he were a corpse.'

'I don't think he is, as yet.'

'What does the doctor say?'

'Death probably within four-and-twenty hours.' Foster laid his hand upon my arm.

'Mr. Howarth, we must have that will.'

'It never was much use saying "must" where Twickenham was concerned; I doubt if it'll be much use now. I can employ means to endeavour to make him if you like, though you seemed to resent it when you caught me using them just now. Reggie has gone for Hancock. He'll be able to tell you to what extent pressure may be applied to obtain the end you have in view.--Here is Reggie; and Hancock too.'

They entered as I spoke. Reggie hastened towards me.

'Any change, Douglas?--Ah, Foster, so you've come.--This is my brother, Sir Gregory, in the bed.'

Hancock surveyed him through his gold-rimmed spectacles. We waited in silence for his verdict.

'Asleep?--Changed; but I should have known him anywhere. He's been a wonderful man.--How long has he been asleep?'

The question was put to me.

'Perhaps five minutes.'

'I doubt if he is asleep.'

This was Foster. Hancock snapped him up.

'You doubt? My dear sir, there's no room for doubt on that point. He always suffered from a weak heart; even, I remember, as a lad. Heart trouble is, I fear, at the base of the trouble now. It is part of the complaint--that the sufferer is continually falling asleep, without notice. From that sleep it is hard to rouse him. In that sleep he often passes away--as, probably, will be the case here. It would be wrong for me to say that I think there is a chance of ultimate recovery when I don't. In a medical sense his lordship is dying now.'

That was Hancock. He gained his reputation by a carefully cultivated habit of jumping at conclusions. The average doctor hums and haws, and tells you nothing. Hancock neither hums nor haws, but tells you everything; or pretends to. He must have been right--or have managed to pass for right--pretty frequently, or he would hardly occupy the position which he does. He is well on the shady side of eighty--hale, hearty, and, what is surprising, still in fashion.

Foster was the first to speak.

'When, Sir Gregory, may the end be expected? Lord Reginald must pardon my asking so frank a question, but, as I will explain to him later, it is of the first importance that I should know exactly what we may expect.'

Reggie said nothing. Sir Gregory considered a moment.

'What is the opinion of the gentleman who is already in attendance?'

I replied. 'Dr. White thinks he will not live four-and-twenty hours.'

Hancock felt the patient's pulse. Opening his shirt he applied the stethoscope; tried his temperature. The sleeper never moved, or showed consciousness of what was going on. The condition of his body, as it was revealed when Hancock opened his shirt, amazed me. It was nothing but skin and bone. And such a colour. Was it possible that this was the man who yesterday had been smoking his cigar on the couch at the York Hotel? My perplexity grew apace. Hancock pronounced his opinion.

'What Dr. White says is correct. I should doubt myself if he will live through the day.'

'Can nothing be done?' asked Reggie.

'Humanly speaking, nothing. He is not dead, but he is so nearly so that he may be said to be already looking through the gates.'

Hancock liked to talk like that. It was supposed that remarks of that kind had made him popular with women. Foster fidgeted.

'Sir Gregory, it is essential that the Marquis should make a will. He was in possession of all his faculties before you entered. Can nothing be done to rouse him?'

Hancock shrugged his shoulders.

'What?'

'Anything. A will we ought to have at any cost. Its absence may be the cause of endless confusion.'

'I can only say, sir, that if the Marquis of Twickenham has not made a will already he never will. Any attempt to rouse him, such as you appear to suggest, might result in his instant death. If we succeeded he would be incapable of doing what you require.'

Foster turned to Reggie.

'I can only say that, from your point of view, your brother might as well have continued an absentee as, under the present circumstances, die intestate.'

I struck in. 'That's absurd. Lord Reginald will succeed.'

'Will he? Don't be too sure. There will always be a probability of other claimants. Opposition may come from a dozen quarters. How can we tell what connections such a man as he has been may not have formed during fifteen years?'

As he propounded this delightful proposition an extraordinary thing took place. Once more the sleeper awoke. He just opened his eyes and looked at us.

'Where's Foster?'

That gentleman swung round with comical rapidity. 'My lord, I am here.'

'About--what you were asking me. I've--never been married. Curse a wife, I've always said.'

'Is that so, my lord?' Then, in an aside to us,' You are all witnesses.'

'My brother's to have everything. Why the devil--hasn't he come--to see me?'

'I have.'

Reggie moved forward. Foster whispered to him as he drew back.

'Keep him engaged in conversation if you can. I'll draw up a short form embodying what he's said. I'll get him to sign it if it's to be done.'

The lawyer retired to a table on which there were pens and ink. The man in the bed looked up at Reggie with unblinking eyes.

'You're not my--brother.'

'I am.'

'You don't--look--like my brother. He--was only a boy. Come--closer. Lean--down. I can't--see you--that way off.'

Reggie leaned over the bed. The sick man put up his hand, from which I observed that the bank-notes had disappeared--though I had seen nothing of the sleight-of-hand which had spirited them away--and with his fingers softly stroked the young man's face. Reggie remained perfectly quiescent while he did it.

'You're--like--your mother. Thank God--you're not--your father's son.' When he said this I was conscious of a catching in my breath. The thing was true. Though how he knew it--save on one presumption--was beyond me altogether. Reggie bore a striking resemblance to his mother, and none whatever to his father. The man in the bed droned on. 'Your--mother--was a good woman. Your--father--was a beast. Like me. Are you--a beast?'

'I hope not.'

'Most men are. Poor devils!' There was a pause before he spoke again. He still touched Reggie softly with his finger-tips, as if doing so brought him a curious sort of comfort. 'You're like your mother, Reggie?'

'Yes.'

'I wish--I wish----. You know what I wish.'

His hand dropped limply back upon the bed. He lay still, though his eyes continued open. Hancock turned to Foster.

'If you want him to do anything you had better try him now.'

After a moment's more spluttering with the pen, Foster came hurrying forward, with a sheet of paper, pen, ink, and blotting-pad.

'My lord, I have ventured to embody your wishes, as you have just expressed them, on this sheet of paper. I will read you what I have written: "I give and bequeath so much of my estate, real and personal, as I have the power of devising, to my brother, Reginald Sherrington, absolutely." It is informal, but will serve. Will your lordship be pleased to attach his signature?'

'What's that?'

'You understand what I have said?'

'Reggie to have all?'

'Precisely. You will secure the due and proper execution of your wishes by signing this paper.'

'I--hate wills.'

'I implore your lordship not to do your brother the crowning injustice of dying without doing something to protect his interests. He is already suffering much on your account. Sir Gregory, will you assist his lordship to sit up?'

Again Hancock shrugged his shoulders.

'It's a risk,' he whispered.

'We must take it.'

Hancock raised the sick man, using as much gentleness as was possible, and the lawyer placed before him the sheet of paper on the blotting-pad. He also insinuated a pen between the wasted fingers.

'What's this?'

'Your lordship understands what you are about to do? You are about to sign your will.'

'Everything to Reggie?'

'Exactly. You are leaving everything to Lord Reginald; as is set forth on this sheet of paper. Your lordship will please attach your signature here.'

The sick man dug the point of his pen into the paper at the place to which Foster had guided his hand. Then he stopped. He looked up, with on his face a very singular expression; as of wistfulness. We watched; wondering what it was he desired to say. There was evidently something. When it came it was not at all what any of us had supposed.

'I want--to see--a good woman. Isn't there--a good woman--in the world?'

I do not know what we had expected him to say. I, of course, cannot answer for all. But I am tolerably certain that neither of us had imagined him to be struggling to give expression to such a wish as that. We exchanged glances. Did it mean that his wits were wandering?

What immediately ensued seemed to suggest that his wits were, if anything, keener than ours.