for some pages of notes which I have made myself and in which I conceive
I have a property."

"This is what I want, Theodore," I said; and I drew the will, unfolded,
from between his hands. As I did so his eyes fell upon the
superscription, "Last Will and Testament, March. F.S." He flushed an
extraordinary crimson. Our eyes met. Somehow--I don't know how or why,
or for that matter why not--I burst into a violent peal of laughter.
Theodore stood staring, with two hot, bitter tears in his eyes.

"Of course you think I came to ferret out that thing," he said.

I shrugged my shoulders--those of my body only. I confess, morally, I
was on my knees with contrition, but there was a fascination in it--a
fatality. I remembered that in the hurry of my movements the other
evening I had slipped the will simply into one of the outer drawers of
the cabinet, among Theodore's own papers. "Mr. Sloane sent me for it," I
remarked.

"Very good; I am glad to hear he's well enough to think of such things."

"He means to destroy it."

"I hope, then, he has another made."

"Mentally, I suppose he has."

"Unfortunately, his weakness isn't mental--or exclusively so."

"Oh, he will live to make a dozen more," I said. "Do you know the