"I want three days to consider the matter," continued Christopher impatiently. "Where is the difficulty? You don't seem to remember you are asking me to give up my chosen life and work and take on a job that I loathe." If Mr. Saunderson's face had been capable of expressing more than displeasure, it would have done so, but he was of no plastic build, mind or body, and "displeasure" was the nearest he could get to active anger. "You have a singular way of regarding what most men would think overpowering good luck, Mr. Masters." Christopher turned sharply. "You at least cannot compel me to take that name. It has never been mine and never will be." "Gently, gently, young man. I am willing to make every allowance for your perturbation, but really, in speaking of my late client ..." he stopped with a shake of the head. "I was speaking of a name, not of him, Mr. Saunderson. However, I apologise. Once more, will you let the whole matter stand still for three days. I don't mean to accept the thing, you know, but I can't argue it out now. I will meet you in town on Wednesday." "If you insist, there is nothing more to be said of course," returned Mr. Saunderson, huffily. "As to your refusing your own rights, that will be less simple than you imagine, but I shall hope you will soon view the matter in another light." "There was no provision made in case the inheritor should refuse or not be available?" Christopher confronted him suddenly with the question, and the poor man, who was as completely off his balance by Christopher's incomprehensible reception of his tidings, as that young man himself, was evidently confused. "There were no instructions at all beyond the memorandum stating his wife and child were last heard of in Whitmansworth Union." "But in the former will, which you say was destroyed?" "I am not at liberty to divulge anything that might be contained in that document." "There is nothing to prevent your acting on such instructions at your own prompting," Christopher insisted bluntly. Mr. Saunderson looked at him critically. "That is an ingenious suggestion Mr. ..." he paused. "Aston," said Christopher. "It's the name those who have treated me as a son gave me, and I see no obligation to change it." The lawyer rose. "Then we are to defer further discussion till Wednesday?" "Until Wednesday. In town, not here." He left with Mr. Shakleton in his wake, and Christopher was at last alone and free to weigh if he would the weight of this stupendous burden, which he resolutely decided was not his to bear. He stood looking out of the window at the still driving mist and had to drag his thoughts back from the external aspect of things to the inner matters he must face. But there was no lucidity in his mind, nothing was clear to him but his fierce resentment against the dead man, and a passionate pity for a faded woman.