Mr. Sturgeon had carried off the old will with him from Mr. Tredgold’s bureau, the document drawn up in his own office in its long blue envelope, with all its details rigorously correct. He put it into his own bag, the bag which Bob Tredgold had carried. Bob’s name was not in it; there were no gracious particulars of legacy or remembrance. Perhaps the one which he fully expected to be produced to-morrow would be more humane. And yet in the morning he took this document out again and read it all over carefully. There were one or two pencil-marks on it on the margin, as of things that were meant to be altered, but no change whatever, no scribbling even of other wishes or changed intentions. The cross in pencil opposite Stella’s name was the only indication of any altered sentiment, and that, of course, was of no consequence and meant nothing. The solicitor read it over and put it back again carefully. If by any chance there was no other will to propound! But that was a thing not to be contemplated. The old beast, he said to himself, was not surely such an old beast as that.

Old Mr. Tredgold was buried on a bright October day, when everything about was full of colour and sunshine. His own trees, the rare and beautiful shrubs and foliage which had made his grounds a sight for tourists, were all clad in gala robes, in tints of brown and yellow and crimson, with feathery seedpods and fruit, hips and haws and golden globes to protect the seed. As he was carried away from his own door a gust of playful wind scattered over the blackness of the vehicle which carried him a shower of those gay and fluttering leaves. If it had been any fair creature one would have said it was Nature’s own tribute to the dead, but in his case it looked more like a handful of coloured rags thrown in mockery upon the vulgar hearse.

And it was a curious group which gathered round the grave. The rector, stately in his white robes, with his measured tones, who had indeed sat at this man’s board and drank his wine, but had never been admitted to speak a word of spiritual admonition or consolation (if he had any to speak), and who still entertained in his heart a grudge against the other all wrapped in black, who stood alone, the only mourner, opposite to him, with the grave between them. Even at that moment, and while he read those solemn words, Mr. Stanley had half an eye for Katherine, half a thought for her loneliness, which even now he felt she had deserved. And behind her was the doctor, who had stood by her through every stage of her father’s lingering illness, certainly taking no personal vengeance on her—far, oh far from that!—yet never forgetting that she had dismissed him amid circumstances that made the dismissal specially bitter—encouraged him, drawn him on, led him to commit himself, and then tossed him away. He had been very kind to Katherine; he had omitted no one thing that the tenderest friend could have done, but he had never forgotten nor forgiven her for what she had done to him. Both of these men thought of her as perhaps triumphant in her good fortune, holding much power in her hands, able to act as a Providence to her sister and to others, really a great lady now so far as money goes. The feeling of both in their different way was hostile to Katherine. They both had something against her; they were angry at the position which it was now expected she would attain. They were not sorry for her loneliness, standing by that grave. Both of them were keenly aware that it was almost impossible for her to entertain any deep grief for her father. If she had, it would have softened them perhaps. But they did not know what profound depression was in her mind, or if they had known they would have both responded with a careless exclamation. Depression that would last for a day! Sadness, the effect of the circumstances, which would soon be shaken off in her triumph. They both expected Katherine to be triumphant, though I cannot tell why. Perhaps they both wished to think ill of her if they could now that she was out of their reach, though she had always been out of their reach, as much six years ago as to-day.

The church, the churchyard, every inch of space, was full of people. There is not very much to look at in Sliplin, and the great hearse with its moving mass of flowers was as fine a sight as another. Flowers upon that old curmudgeon, that old vile man with his money who had been of no use to anyone! But there were flowers in plenty, as many as if he had been beautiful like them. They were sent, it is to be supposed, to please Katherine, and also from an instinctive tribute to the wealth which gave him importance among his fellow-men, though if they could have placed the sovereigns which these wreaths cost upon his coffin it would have been a more appropriate offering. Sir John and Lady Jane sent their carriage (that most remarkable of all expressions of sympathy) to follow in the procession. That, too, was intended to please Katherine, and the wreath out of their conservatory as a reminder that Stella was to be provided for. Mr. Tredgold thus got a good deal of vicarious honour in his last scene, and he would have liked it all had he been there (as perhaps he was) to see. One thing, however, he would not have liked would have been the apparition of Robert Tredgold, dressed for the occasion in his brother’s clothes, and saying, “He was my brother. I’m his only brother!” to whoever would listen. Bob was disappointed not to give his niece his arm, to stand by her as chief mourner at the foot of the grave.

They all went into the drawing-room when they returned to the house. Katherine had no thought of business on that particular day, and her father’s room was too cold and dreary, and full as of a presence invisible, which was not a venerable presence. She shuddered at the idea of entering it; and probably because she was alone, and had no one to suggest it to her, the idea of a will to be read, or arrangements to be settled, did not enter into her mind. She thought they were coming to take leave of her when they all trooped into the gay, much-decorated room, with its gilding and resplendent mirrors. The blinds had been drawn up, and it was all as bright as the ruddy afternoon and the blazing fire could make it. She sat down in her heavy veil and cloak and turned to them, expecting the little farewell speeches, and vulgar consolations, and shaking of hands. But Mr. Sturgeon, the solicitor, drew his chair towards the round table of Florentine work set in gay gilding, and pushed away from before him the books and nick-nacks with which it was covered. His black bag had somehow found its way to him, and he placed it as he spoke between his feet.

“I have had no opportunity all day of speaking to you, Miss Katherine,” he said, “nor last night. You retired early, I think, and our search was not very productive. You can tell me now, perhaps, what solicitor your late father, our lamented friend, employed. He ought to have been here.”

“He engaged no solicitor that I know of,” she replied. “Indeed, I have always thought you had his confidence—more than anyone——”

“I had,” said the solicitor. “I may say I had all his affairs in my hands; but latterly I supposed—— There must surely be someone here.”

“No one that I know of,” said Katherine. “We can ask Harrison if you like. He knew everything that went on.”

Here there uprose the voice of Bob Tredgold, who even at lunch had made use of his opportunities.

“I want to have the will read,” he said; “must have the will read. It’s a deal to me is that will. I’m not going to be hung up any more in suspense.”

“Catch hold of this bag,” said the solicitor contemptuously, flinging it to him. Mr. Sturgeon had extracted from it the long blue envelope which he had found in Mr. Tredgold’s bureau—the envelope with his own stamp on it. Mr. Turny fixed his eyes upon this at once. Those little round eyes began to glisten, and his round bald head—the excitement of a chance which meant money, something like the thrill of the gambler, though the chance was not his, filled him with animation. Katherine sat blank, looking on at a scene which she did not understand.

“Harrison, will you tell this gentleman whether my father”—she made a little pause over the words—“saw any solicitor from Sliplin, or did any business privately?”

“Within the last five or six years?” Mr. Sturgeon added.

“No solicitor, sir,” the man answered at once, but with a gleam in his eyes which announced more to say.

“Go on, you have got something else in your mind. Let us hear what it is, and with no delay.”

“Master, sir,” said Harrison thus adjured, “he said to me more than once, ‘I’m a going to send for Sturgeon,’ he says. Beg your pardon, sir, for naming you like that, short.”

“Go on—go on.”

“And then he never did it, sir,” the man said.

“That’s not the question. Had he any interview, to your knowledge, with any solicitor here? Did he see anybody on business? Was there any signing of documents? I suppose you must have known?”

“I know everything, sir, as master did. I got him up, sir, and I put him to bed. There was never one in the house as did a thing for him but me. Miss Katherine she can tell as I never neglected him; never was out of the way when he wanted me; had no ’olidays, sir.” Harrison’s voice quivered as he gave this catalogue of his own perfections, as if with pure self-admiration and pity he might have broken down.

“It will be remembered in your favour,” said Mr. Sturgeon. “Now tell me precisely what happened.”

“Nothing at all happened, sir,” Harrison said.

“What, nothing? You can swear to it? In all these five, six years, nobody came from the village, town—whatever you call it—whom he consulted with, who had any documents to be signed, nothing, nobody at all?”

“Nothing!” said Harrison with solemnity, “nothing! I’ll take my Bible oath; now and then there was a gentleman subscribing for some charity, and there was the doctor every day or most every day, and as many times as I could count on my fingers there would be some one calling, that gentleman, sir,” he said suddenly, pointing to Mr. Turny, who looked up alarmed as if accused of something, “as was staying in the house.”

“But no business, no papers signed?”

“Hadn’t you better speak to the doctor, Sturgeon? He knew more of him than anyone.”

“Not more nor me, sir,” said Harrison firmly; “nobody went in or out of master’s room that was unknown to me.”

“This is all very well,” said Bob Tredgold, “but it isn’t the will. I don’t know what you’re driving at; but it’s the will as we want—my poor brother’s daughter here, and me.”

“I think, Miss Katherine,” said the lawyer, “that I’d rather talk it over with—with Mr. Turny, who is the other executor, and perhaps with the doctor, who could tell us something of your father’s state of mind.”

“What does it all mean?” Katherine said.

“I’d rather talk it over first; there is a great deal of responsibility on our shoulders, between myself and Mr. Turny, who is the other executor. I am sorry to keep you waiting, Miss Katherine.”

“Oh, it is of no consequence,” Katherine said. “Shall I leave you here? Nobody will interrupt you, and you can send for me if you want me again. But perhaps you will not want me again?”

“Yes, I fear we shall want you.” The men stood aside while she went away, her head bowed down under the weight of her veil. But Robert Tredgold opposed her departure. He caught her by the cloak and held her back. “Stop here,” he said, “stop here; if you don’t stop here none of them will pay any attention to me.”

“You fool!” cried the lawyer, pushing him out of the way, “what have you got to say to it? Take up your bag, and mind your business; the will is nothing to you.”

“Don’t speak to him so,” cried Katherine. “You are all so well off and he is poor. And never mind,” she said, touching for a moment with her hand the arm of that unlovely swaying figure, “I will see that you are provided for, whether it is in the will or not. Don’t have any fear.”

The lawyer followed her with his eyes, with a slight shrug of his shoulders and shake of his head. Dr. Burnet met her at the door as she went away.

“They have sent for me,” he said; “I don’t know why. Is there anything wrong? Can I be of any use?”

“I know of nothing wrong. They want to consult you, but I don’t understand on what subject. It is a pity they should think it’s necessary to go on with their business to-day.”

“They have to go back to town,” he said.

“Yes, to be sure, I suppose that is the reason,” she answered, and with a slight inclination of her head she walked away.

But no one spoke for a full minute after the doctor joined them; they stood about in the much gilded, brightly decorated room, in the outer portion outside that part which Katherine had separated for herself. Her table, with its vase of flowers, her piano, the low chair in which she usually sat, were just visible within the screen. The dark figures of the men encumbered the foreground between the second fireplace and the row of long windows opening to the ground. Mr. Sturgeon stood against one of these in profile, looking more than ever like some strange bird, with his projecting spectacles and long neck and straggling beard and hair.

“You sent for me, I was told,” Dr. Burnet said.

“Ah, yes, yes.” Mr. Sturgeon turned round. He threw himself into one of the gilded chairs. There could not have been a more inappropriate scene for such an assembly. “We would like you to give us a little account of your patient’s state, doctor,” he said, “if you will be so good. I don’t mean technically, of course. I should like to know about the state of his mind. Was he himself? Did he know what he was doing? Would you have said he was able to take a clear view of his position, and to understand his own intentions and how to carry them out?”

“Do you mean to ask me if Mr. Tredgold was in full possession of his faculties? Perfectly, I should say, and almost to the last hour.”

“Did he ever confide in you as to his intentions for the future, Doctor? I mean about his property, what he meant to do with it? A man often tells his doctor things he will tell to no one else. He was very angry with his daughter, the young lady who ran away, we know. He mentioned to you, perhaps, that he meant to disinherit her—to leave everything to her sister?”

“My poor brother,” cried Bob Tredgold, introducing himself to Dr. Burnet with a wave of his hand, “I’m his only brother, sir—swore always as he’d well provide for me.”

Dr. Burnet felt himself offended by the question; he had the instinctive feeling so common in a man who moves in a limited local circle that all his own affairs were perfectly known, and that the expectations he had once formed, and the abrupt conclusion to which they had come, were alluded to in this quite uncalled for examination.

“Mr. Tredgold never spoke to me of his private affairs,” he said sharply. “I had nothing to do with his money or how he meant to leave it. The question was one of no interest to me.”

“But, surely,” said the lawyer, “you must in the course of so long an illness have heard him refer to it, make some remark on the subject—a doctor often asks, if nothing more, whether the business affairs are all in order, whether there might be something a man would wish to have looked to.”

“Mr. Tredgold was a man of business, which I am not. He knew what was necessary much better than I did. I never spoke to him on business matters, nor he to me.”

There was another pause, and the two city men looked at each other while Dr. Burnet buttoned up his coat significantly as a sign of departure. At last Mr. Turny with his bald head shining said persuasively, “But, you knew, he was very angry—with the girl who ran away.”

“I knew only what all the world knew,” said Dr. Burnet. “I am a very busy man, I have very little time to spare. If that is all you have to ask me, I must beg you to——”

“One minute,” said the solicitor, “the position is very serious. It is very awkward for us to have no other member of the family, no one in Miss Tredgold’s interest to talk it over with. I thought, perhaps, that you, Dr. Burnet, being I presume, by this time, an old family friend as well as——”

“I can’t pretend to any such distinction,” he said quickly with an angry smile, for indeed although he never showed it, he had never forgiven Katherine. Then it occurred to him, though a little late, that these personal matters might as well be kept to himself. He added quickly, “I have, of course, seen Miss Tredgold daily, for many years.”

“Well,” said Mr. Sturgeon, “that’s always something, as she has nobody to stand by her, no relation, no husband—nothing but—what’s worse than nothing,” he added with a contemptuous glance at Robert Tredgold, who sat grasping his bag, and looking from one to another with curious and bewildered eyes.

Dr. Burnet grew red, and buttoned up more tightly than ever the buttons he had undone. “If I can be of any use to Miss Tredgold,” he said. “Is there anything disagreeable before her—any prohibition—against helping her sister?”

“Dr. Burnet,” said the solicitor imperiously, “we can find nothing among Mr. Tredgold’s papers, and I have nothing, not an indication of his wishes, except the will of eighteen hundred and seventy-one.”