She brought him the will--or, rather, a will. It was spread out on a slope, and covered with a sheet of blotting-paper on which she kept her fingers to prevent it slipping. Only the last four lines were visible--"it is my wish shall be paid to her, free of legacy duty, within seven days of my being buried". What went before was hidden; the familiar conclusion seemed to be all that he cared to see. Leaning over him, raising his right arm, as gingerly as if it had been a piece of delicate porcelain, she placed his dreadful, helpless fingers somehow about a pen. He spoke to the two girls. "As you know, I can do nothing by myself, so Mrs. Grahame, at my request, is going to guide my hand so as to enable me to sign my will. You understand, it is I who am signing it, not she." It was a strange signature--"Cuthbert Grahame," in big, sprawling letters; some of them unattached to each other, all slanting in different directions. The owner of the name, however, seemed to view the result with undiluted satisfaction. "That's my signature--clear enough for any one to read. Now I want you two girls to attach your names as witnesses to the fact that I have signed my will in your presence." Isabel removed the slope to the writing-table against the wall. Then each of the girls wrote her name in turn. When they had done so they left the room. So soon as they had gone Cuthbert Grahame spoke to Isabel. "Now let me have a look at that will of mine in its finished condition. Thank goodness it is done. It's a weight off my mind--a relief for which I have to thank you." Isabel stood at the writing-table, looking down, with a smile on her face, at the paper he had signed. "Do you say that you want to see your will now that it's all signed, sealed and finished?" "Yes; didn't you hear what I said? Then I want you to put it under my pillow. I'll show it Twelves when he comes. He'll laugh when he sees it." "I expect he will laugh. Is Dr. Twelves coming to-day?" "He said something about it. If not, then he'll be here to-morrow. It will keep till then." "Oh yes; it will keep till then." "What are you waiting for? Why don't you bring the will? Don't I tell you I want to read it again?" She went to the bed, the sheet of paper extended between her two hands. "Here's your will, Mr. Grahame; by all means read it again." He read it, once, twice, then again. Then he tried to speak. It seemed that his voice failed him. It was not pleasant to notice the stammer which seemed to mark his struggles for breath. "What--what folly's this? That's not the will I signed." Her eyes were dancing with laughter. There was a merry ring in her voice, as if she was in the enjoyment of an excellent joke. "Oh yes, it is." "It's not the one you drafted." "Oh yes, it is." "It isn't the one you showed me just now." "Isn't it? Are you quite, quite sure?" "Of course I'm sure! It's a trick!--a fraud! This is not my will!"