"I found John Mallathorpe's will!" he whispered. "His--will!"

Linford Pratt jumped out of his chair. For a second he stared in
speechless amazement at the old man; then he plunged his hands deep into
his trousers' pockets, opened his mouth, and let out a sudden
exclamation.

"No!" he said. "No! John Mallathorpe's--will? His--will!"

"Made the very day on which he died," answered Bartle, nodding
emphatically.

"Queer, wasn't it? He might have had some--premonition, eh?"

Pratt sat down again.

"Where is it?" he asked.

"Here in my pocket," replied the old bookseller, tapping his rusty coat.
"Oh, it's all right, I assure you. All duly made out, signed, and
witnessed. Everything in order, I know!--because a long, a very long
time ago, I was like you, an attorney's clerk. I've drafted many a will,
and witnessed many a will, in my time. I've read this, every word of
it--it's all right. Nothing can upset it."

"Let's see it," said Pratt, eagerly.

"Well--I've no objection--I know you, of course," answered Bartle, "but
I'd rather show it first to Mr. Eldrick. Couldn't you telephone up to