‘Say that I am mistaken, then,’ replied Lucius, infinitely relieved by the old man’s incredulity. How could he have answered if Mr. Sivewright had questioned him closely? He was not schooled in falsehood. The horrible truth might have been wrung from him in spite of himself. ‘Say that your son still lives,’ he went on. ‘I accept your trust, and thank you for your confidence in me. I shall receive your wealth, and may it be long ere it falls to my hands—rather as a trustee than an inheritor—for to my mind it will always belong to Lucille, and not to me.’ ‘And you swear that my wicked son shall never profit by my hard-earned gains?’ ‘I swear it,’ said Lucius. ‘Then I am satisfied. My will is straight and simple, and leaves all to you without reserve. It has been duly witnessed, and lies in this inner drawer.’ He lifted the flap of the table, and showed Lucius a concealed drawer at the back. ‘You will remember?’ ‘Yes,’ answered the surgeon, ‘but I trust in God that it may be long ere that document is needed.’ ‘That is a polite speech common to heirs,’ answered Mr. Sivewright, with a touch of bitterness. ‘But you have been very good to me,’ he added in a softer tone; ‘and I like you. Nay, could I believe in the existence of friendship, I should be induced to think that you return my liking.’ ‘I do, sir, with all my heart,’ returned Lucius. ‘Your eccentricities kept us asunder for some time; but since you have treated me with confidence—since you have bared your heart to me, with its heavy burden of past wrongs and sorrows—you have drawn me very near to you. I deplore the mistaken principle which has guided your later life; but I cannot but acknowledge the magnitude of the wrong which inspired that dream of revenge. Yet, while I accept the trust which you are generous enough to confide in me, I regret that I should profit by your anger against another. If I did not think your son was dead—that all hope of earthly atonement for his wrong-doing is over—I should refuse to subscribe to the conditions of your bequest.’ ‘Say no more about his death,’ exclaimed the old man, ‘or you will make me angry. Now one more word about business. If, immediately after my death, you want money, sell my collection at once. You will find a catalogue, and detached instructions as to the manner of the sale, in this desk. If, on the other hand, you can afford to wait for your fortune—if you want the present value of those things to double itself—wait twenty years, and sell them before your eldest child comes of age. In that case, you will have a fortune large enough to make your sons great merchants—to dower half-a-dozen daughters.’ ‘I shall not be too eager to turn your treasures into money, believe me, sir,’ answered Lucius.