Yet, as he entered the long salle-a-manger he almost started. At one of the first tables sat Sir Gaspard, and he beckoned Wray to join him. “I was tired of my own society,” he said--and if ever a man’s face was weary it was his!--“so I came down. If you are not afraid of a dull companion, will you lunch with me?” Mr. Marcus Wray would be delighted. He sat down and did his best to be amusing; by the time the sweets appeared Sir Gaspard was smiling. At the far end of the room, behind the baronet, Wray saw the stout form of the London clergyman who had witnessed the will. He was enjoying his luncheon, waited on by the proprietor in person. Truly, whatever gods there were stood friendly to the man who sat so calmly with a forged signature in his pocket. “I have forgotten something,” he said suddenly. “If you will excuse me, Sir Gaspard, for one moment, I have a little matter to arrange with the dean there. I know he is leaving immediately.” Sir Gaspard nodded, and, with quick, noiseless steps, Marcus Wray had joined the dean. “I regret having to trouble you again,” he said courteously, “but my poor friend over there wishes a copy of his will left here with the proprietor. He wishes to know if you will be good enough to witness it; Dubourg also,” to the affable little proprietor. The latter produced pen and ink from somewhere with incredible quickness, and the dean wrote his ponderous signature with a glance at Sir Gaspard, who seemed to sit expectant of his emissary’s return. “The poor monsieur is of the dying,” the landlord said, as he added his name. Wray nodded. “I fear so,” he said. “This is to be deposited in your safe, Mr. Dubourg,” he added, in an undertone as the man preceded him across the room to draw out his chair at Sir Gaspard’s table. “Sealed, you understand, and to remain there! In case you hear of Sir Gaspard’s death you are to forward it. Otherwise, nothing is to be said about it.” The little man bowed. “I understand, it is for making sure,” he assented. “The poor man leaves us to-night for Rome.” Sir Gaspard, quite unconscious of the meaning of the proprietor’s compassionate glance, retired almost on Wray’s return, to rest for his journey. But that individual, whose business in Paris was finished, did not take the mail-train for London, as he had intended. The motto of his existence was: “Never desert your luck”--that luck of Marcus Wray that was a proverb in the Inns of Court. To go back to London and dream of a golden future would be to act like a fool; many a dying man had lived to laugh at his heirs, and so might this one. A prescience that the time was heavy with fate bade the lawyer not lose sight of the invalid. Instead of going to London, his cab was just behind Sir Gaspard’s on the way to the station. His last act before leaving the hotel had been to deposit his sealed document in Monsieur Dubourg’s safe. On bad news it was to be at once forwarded to Sir Gaspard’s solicitors in London.