Stephen glided snake-like across the room to a small safe that stood in a recess, opened the door, and with trembling hands drew out the drawer. His hands shook so, his heart beat to such an extent, that as a movement in the next room struck upon his ears, he could scarcely refrain from shrieking aloud; but it was only the nurse, whom the old man would only allow to enter the room at intervals; and setting his teeth hard, and fighting for calm, Stephen took out two documents. One was a parchment of goodly proportions. Both were folded and endorsed on the back--the parchment with the inscription, "Last will and testament of Ralph Davenant, Gent., Jan. 18--." With eyes that almost refused to do their task, Stephen turned the other paper to the light, and read, "Will, July 18--." This inscription was written in an old man's hand--the parchment was engrossed as usual. Two wills! The one--the parchment, however, was useless; the other--the sheet of foolscap--was the last. "Well," rose the voice from the bed, hollow and broken, "have you got them?" Stephen came up and stood behind the curtain, and held the wills up. "Yes, yes," he said. "The first is--is in whose favor?" The old man struggled for breath. White, breathless himself with the agony of anxiety and fear--for any moment someone might enter the room--Stephen stood staring beside him. He dared not undo the tapes and glance at the wills, in case of interruption--dared not conceal them, for Hudsley might appear on the scene. With the wills clasped in his hand, he stood and waited. The faintness passed--old Ralph regained his voice. "One is parchment--the other is paper. The parchment one you drew up; you know its contents--I want it destroyed, or, stay, keep it. It will add to the deceitful hound's disappointment. The other--ah, my God--it is too late--Hudsley, there is a cruel history in that paper. No hand but mine could pen it. But--but--I have done justice. Too late!--why do you say--too late? Why do you mock a dying man? Mind, Hudsley, I trust to you. It is a sound will, made in sound body--and--mind. Don't leave that hypocritical hound a chance of setting it aside. I trust to you. Stop, better burn the first will; burn it here now--now," and in his excitement he actually raised his head. Raised it to let it drop upon the pillow again with exhaustion. Stephen stood and glared, torn this way and that by doubt and uncertainty. "Justice," he whispered hoarsely. "The first will, my will leaves all to----" "To that hound Stephen!" gasped the old man. "I did it in a weak moment and repented of it. Leaves all to him; but not now." Stephen hesitated no longer. With the quick, gliding movement of a cat he reached the iron safe, replaced the parchment in the drawer and locked the outer door, and thrust the paper will into his pocket. Scarcely had he done so, before he had time to get to his place, the door opened and Hudsley, the lawyer, entered.