"So Stephen didn't send? It was just like him. A good stroke." "Yes, he sent," said Jack; "but----" The old man waved his hand to show that he understood. "A sharp stroke. A clever fellow, Stephen. You always were a fool." "I'm afraid so, sir," he said quietly. "But Stephen is a knave, and a fool, too," murmured the old man. "Jack, I wish--I wish I could come back to the funeral." "To see his face when the will's read," explained old Ralph, with a grim smile. Jack colored, and, I am ashamed to say, grinned. A sardonic smile flitted over the old man's face. "Be sure you are there, Jack; don't let him keep you away." "Not that you will be disappointed--much," said the old man. "Don't think of me, sir," said Jack, with a dim sense of the discordance in such talk from such lips. "I have thought of you as far--as--as I dared. Jack, you are an honest fool. Why--why did you give that _post obit_?" "I don't know," said Jack, quietly. "Don't worry about that now." "Stephen told me," said the old man, grimly. "He has told me every piece of wickedness you have done. He is a kind-hearted man, is--Ste--phen." "We never were friends, sir," he said. "But don't talk now." "I must," murmured the old man. "Now or never, and--give me your hand, Jack." "I've had yours ever since I came in," said Jack, simply. "Oh, I didn't know it. Good-by, boy--don't--don't end up like this. It--and--for Heaven's sake don't cry!" for Jack emitted a suspicious little choking sound, and his eyes were dim. "Good-by; don't be too disappointed. Justice, Jack, justice. Where is Stephen?--send him to me. I"--and the old sardonic smile came back--"I like to see him--he amuses me!" The eyes closed; Jack waited a moment, then pressed the cold hand, and crept from the room. Half way down the stairs he leaned his arm on the balustrade and dropped his face on it for a minute or two, then choking back his tears, went into the library--where Stephen was sitting reading a volume of sermons--and pointed up-stairs. "My uncle wants me?" murmured Stephen. "I will go. Might I recommend this book to you, my dear Jack; it contains----" Jack, I regret to say, chucked the volume into a corner of the room, and Stephen, with a mournfully reproachful sigh, shook his head and left the room. CHAPTER VI. "Villains," says an old adage, "are made by accident." Now mark how accident helped to make a villain of the good Stephen Davenant. He passed up the stairs and entered the bedroom. As he did so his foot struck against a chair and caused a little noise. The dying man heard it, however, and opening his eyes, said, almost inaudibly: "Is that you, Hudsley?" Stephen was about to reply, "No, it is I--Stephen," but stopped, hesitated, and as if struck by a sudden idea, drew back behind the bed-curtains. Whatever that idea was, he was considerably moved by it; his hands shook, and his lips trembled during the interval of silence before the old man repeated the question: