He could not say “Magdalen,” but Frank knew whom he meant, and, in his great pity for the wounded man, he was ready to give up everything to him _but_ Magdalen. He must have _her_, but Roger should keep Millbank. “I believe that I am more sorry than you can be that the will is found,” he said, still grasping Roger’s hand. “And I want to say to you now that I prefer you should keep the place just as you have done. There need be no change. Only give me enough to support myself and—and——” _He_ could not say Magdalen either, for he was not so sure of her, but Roger said it for him. “Support yourself and Magdalen. I know what you mean, my boy. You are very generous and kind, but right is right. When I thought Millbank mine, I kept it. Now that I know it is not mine, I shall accept _no part of it_, however small.” He spoke sternly, and his face began to harden. He was thinking of the clause, “the boy known as Roger Lennox Irving.” He could take no part of the estate of the man who had dictated those cruel words. He was too proud for that; he would rather earn his bread by the sweat of his brow than be beholden to one who could believe such things of his mother. Frank saw the change in his manner, and anxious to propitiate him, began again to urge his wish that Roger would, at least, allow him to divide the inheritance in case the will was proved, but Roger stopped him impatiently. “It is not you, my boy, whose gift I refuse. If you cannot understand me, I shall not now explain. I’ve lived on you for years. I can never repay that, for I feel as if all my energies were crippled, so I will let that obligation remain, but must incur no other. As to proving the will,” and Roger smiled bitterly when he saw how eagerly his sister listened, and remembered the question she had asked him just as Frank came in, and which he had not yet answered, “As to proving the will, you will have no trouble there. I certainly shall make none. You will find it very easy stepping into your estate.” Mrs. Walter Scott drew a long breath of relief and sank into her chair, in the easy, contented, languid attitude she always assumed when satisfied with herself and her condition. She roused up, however, when Roger went on to say: “One thing I must investigate, and that is, _who_ hid this will, and why. Have you any theory?” and he turned to his sister, who replied, “I have always suspected Hester Floyd. She was a witness, with her husband.” “Why did you always suspect her, and what reason had you for believing there was a later will than the one made in my favor?” Roger asked, and his sister quailed beneath the searching glance of his eyes. She could not tell him all she knew, and she colored scarlet and stammered out something about Mrs. Floyd’s strange manner at the time of the Squire’s funeral, nearly twenty years ago. “Frank, please go for Hester,” Roger said. “We will hear what she has to say.”