“No, no, Mr. Dering. The news I have to tell you is not quite so bad as that, and yet it is bad enough in all conscience. While going through some of your uncle’s papers this afternoon—you know what a quantity of them there are, and in what disorder he kept them—while engaged upon this necessary duty, I discovered—what think you, sir? what think you?” “Another will, I suppose,” said Lionel, slowly. “Not another will, but a codicil, sir; codicil to the will with whose provisions we are already acquainted; in the handwriting of the testator himself, witnessed in due form, and dated only three months ago!” “And what may be the contents of this important document?” asked Lionel, as he crumbled his bread with apparent indifference. “The contents are these: Should you, Lionel Dering, die unmarried, or without lawful issue, the whole of the property bequeathed you by your uncle’s will reverts to your cousin, Mr. Kester St. George, or to his children, should you be the longer liver of the two.” “Is that all?” said Lionel, with a sigh of relief. “All, sir! Quite enough, too, I should say, if I were in your place.” “Nobody can touch the property as long as, I live.” “Certainly not.” “Then a fig for the rest! Shall I send you a sole or some stewed eels?” “It is quite a relief, to me to find how coolly you take my news; though it is true your uncle could not well have made the contingency of your cousin’s inheriting a more remote one.” “Tell me,” said Lionel, “have you either seen or heard anything of Kester since my uncle’s death?” “I have heard from him, but not seen him. He wrote to me a few days after your uncle’s funeral, asking me to send him an abstract of the contents of the will. He gave an address in Paris, and I answered his letter by return of post.” “An address in Paris!” exclaimed Lionel. “That is very strange. I never felt more positive of anything than that my cousin Kester passed me on Westminster Bridge on the very night of my uncle’s funeral.” “A coincidence, my dear sir, nothing more,” said the lawyer, cheerfully. “Such things happen every day in London. It would almost seem as if every man had his double—a sort of unknown twin-brother—somewhere in the world.” Lionel pursued the subject no farther, but he was none the less convinced in his own mind that it was Kester, and no one but him, that he had seen. Could he ever forget the look of undying hatred that shone out of his cousin’s eyes? “You have not yet advised Kester of the contents of the codicil?” he said at last. “I have not had time to do so. I purpose writing to him this evening: unless you wish me to defer doing so until you have satisfied yourself as to the authenticity of the document.” “My dear sir, if you are satisfied that the document is genuine, that is enough for me. Write to my cousin, by all means, and as soon as possible. By-the-by, you may as well give me his address. I shall probably drop him a line myself.”