It was not only to the Kellys that the idea occurred that Anty in her illness might make a will. The thoughts of such a catastrophe had robbed Barry of half the pleasure which the rumours of his sister’s dangerous position had given him. He had not received any direct intimation of Anty’s state, but had heard through the servants that she was ill—very ill—dangerously—“not expected,” as the country people call it; and each fresh rumour gave him new hopes, and new life. He now spurned all idea of connexion with Martin; he would trample on the Kellys for thinking of such a thing: he would show Daly, when in the plenitude of his wealth and power, how he despised the lukewarmness and timidity of his councils. These and other delightful visions were floating through his imagination; when, all of a sudden, like a blow, like a thunderbolt, the idea of _a will_ fell as it were upon him with a ton weight. His heart sunk low within him; he became white, and his jaw dropped. After all, there were victory and triumph, plunder and wealth, _his_ wealth, in the very hands of his enemies! Of course the Kellys would force her to make a will, if she didn’t do it of her own accord; if not, they’d forge one. There was some comfort in that thought: he could at any rate contest the will, and swear that it was a forgery. He swallowed a dram, and went off, almost weeping to Daly. “Oh, Mr Daly, poor Anty’s dying: did you hear, Mr Daly—she’s all but gone?” Yes; Daly had been sorry to hear that Miss Lynch was very ill. “What shall I do,” continued Barry, “if they say that she’s left a will?” “Go and hear it read. Or, if you don’t like to do that yourself, stay away, and let me hear it.” “But they’ll forge one! They’ll make out what they please, and when she’s dying, they’ll make her put her name to it; or they’ll only just put the pen in her hand, when she’s not knowing what she’s doing. They’d do anything now, Daly, to get the money they’ve been fighting for so hard.” “It’s my belief,” answered the attorney, “that the Kellys not only won’t do anything dishonest, but that they won’t even take any unfair advantage of you. But at any rate you can do nothing. You must wait patiently; you, at any rate, can take no steps till she’s dead.” “But couldn’t she make a will in my favour? I know she’d do it if I asked her—if I asked her now—now she’s going off, you know. I’m sure she’d do it. Don’t you think she would?” “You’re safer, I think, to let it alone,” said Daly, who could hardly control the ineffable disgust he felt.