Winter’s voice over the telephone informed him that Sir Vernon had taken an alarming turn for the worse. His condition was said to be critical, but not hopeless. The doctor was with him now. Sir Vernon had been unconscious for some time. Winter promised to ring up and give the doctor’s further report later in the evening. Walter Brooklyn was duly sympathetic; and there was in him indeed some real feeling for his brother. But the thought uppermost in his mind was that, if old Vernon would only be obliging enough to die, it would be from his brother’s point of view a very happy release. If only the will had not been altered already without his knowing about it. A horrible thought: not likely, perhaps, but disquieting all the same. How badly he wanted to see Carter Woodman in order to make sure. Poor old Vernon would never live to alter his will now. Everything depended on the terms of the will now in force. It was probably all right; but he would give something to know for certain. And, if Sir Vernon would only die now and get it over, there would be no need to bribe Woodman for an advance. The money would be his then. Should he wait and risk it? No; old men often took so unconscionably long a-dying. If things came right, he would never miss what he would have to give Woodman for the sake of immediate security. The telephone rang. It was Winter. The doctor had just left. Sir Vernon’s condition was very critical, but the doctor said it was still not hopeless. He might rally and get well. But any shock would certainly be fatal. The doctor was coming again later. Should he ’phone up again? Brooklyn asked him to do so, and rang off. Yes, he must certainly see Woodman, unless old Vernon was obliging enough to die in the night. Turning these things over in his mind, Walter Brooklyn sat, until a pleasant drowsiness came over him. He woke with a start. It was after eleven. Was not that a knock at the door? “Come in,” he said. When he saw who his visitor was, he greeted him warmly. “This is quite unexpected,” he said, “but I am very glad you have come. Have a whisky.” Carter Woodman nodded. “I found I could get here after all this evening,” he said. Then he mixed himself a good stiff whisky, silently refilled Brooklyn’s glass for him, and sank into a chair. “What was it you wanted to see me about?” he asked. “Money, as usual, I suppose.” Brooklyn nodded. “A man must live, you know,” he said. “Your idea of living has always been one that runs away with the money, my dear chap,” said Woodman, with a laugh. “Never mind that. I want some now.” “But you know that Sir Vernon, through Prinsep, gave me positive instructions that I should only give you money on one condition.” “Isn’t the position a bit different now, Woodman? I mean since what happened last week.”