perceived that he had left everything to his saintly secretary. For an
instant a savage, puerile feeling of hate popped up in my bosom, and I
came within a hair's-breadth of obeying my foremost impulse--that of
stuffing the document into the fire. Fortunately, my reason overtook my
passion, though for a moment it was an even race. I put the paper back
into the bureau, closed it, and rang the bell for Robert (the old man's
servant). Before he came I stood watching the poor, pale remnant of
mortality before me, and wondering whether those feeble life-gasps were
numbered. He was as white as a sheet, grimacing with pain--horribly
ugly. Suddenly he opened his eyes; they met my own; I fell on my knees
and took his hands. They closed on mine with a grasp strangely akin to
the rigidity of death. Nevertheless, since then he has revived, and has
relapsed again into a comparatively healthy sleep. Robert seems to know
how to deal with him.

22d.--Mr. Sloane is seriously ill--out of his mind and unconscious of
people's identity. The doctor has been here, off and on, all day, but
this evening reports improvement. I have kept out of the old man's room,
and confined myself to my own, reflecting largely upon the chance of his
immediate death. Does Theodore know of the will? Would it occur to him
to divide the property? Would it occur to me, in his place? We met at
dinner, and talked in a grave, desultory, friendly fashion. After all,
he's an excellent fellow. I don't hate him. I don't even dislike him. He
jars on me, _il m'agace_; but that's no reason why I should do him an
evil turn. Nor shall I. The property is a fixed idea, that's all. I
shall get it if I can. We are fairly matched. Before heaven, no, we are
not fairly matched! Theodore has a conscience.

23d.--I am restless and nervous--and for good reasons. Scribbling here
keeps me quiet. This morning Mr. Sloane is better; feeble and uncertain