At the door of the private office John paused an instant, uncovered, and looked about on the well-known appointments of the little room before he dropped his gaze on the stark figure lying upon the worn old sofa. Then he walked across to it, and Dick followed him into the office. The two stood a minute looking down in silence on the figure of the old man; then John turned and spoke to Thomas Jones, who had arisen from his chair in the corner when they came in. “You were right,” said John. “He is dead. Hasn’t the doctor come?” “No, sir. I sent Mr. Bagsbury’s carriage after him as directly as I found out what had happened, before I telephoned to you. He should be here by now.” “Did he die here, on the sofa, I mean?” John asked. “In his chair, sir. I heard a noise, and when I came in I found that he had fallen over on the desk; his head and arms were resting on those papers. I thought it might be just a faint, and carried him over here.” At the mention of the desk, John turned to it. There were two minutes of silence after Thomas Jones had finished speaking, and then they heard in the street the rumble of the carriage. “It’s the doctor,” said John. “Go and bring him up here.” The man went out, and still John’s eyes rested on the disordered papers upon the desk. Dick, standing at his left, but a pace behind him, had also turned her eyes from the dead figure of the old banker; she was intently watching the son’s face. Once she started to speak, but hesitated; then, seeing a slight motion of John’s body, a motion that seemed preparatory to a step toward the desk, she took a swift decision. “They’re his private papers, aren’t they?” she said. “Hadn’t we better put them away? They shouldn’t lie here.” “Yes,” said John, decisively. “Will you do it?” He stood watching her without volunteering to help while she laid the papers back in the iron box. “It has a spring lock,” he said, when she had finished. “You have only to shut it.” When he heard the lock click, he walked to the safe and pulled open the heavy door. Dick carried the box to the safe and put it in, and John shut the door, shot the bolts, and spun the combination knob around vigorously. “They’re all right now,” he said. Then he walked to the chair in the corner, though the big office chair that stood before the desk was nearer, and sat down, just as Thomas came in with the doctor. The day after the funeral John went to the office of his father’s attorney to hear the reading of the will. Judge Hayes--he had been a judge once--was a stout little man with a bald, round head; he had no eyebrows worth mentioning nor lashes, and altogether his red wrinkled face was laughably like that of a baby. His shell-rimmed eye-glasses, by looking ridiculously out of place, only made this effect the more striking.