A vague sense of alarm filled MacGowan’s mind; but he was too tipsy to speculate on the reason which the respectable Mr. Beattie might have for coming to such a place. In another moment Beattie had recognised him, and walked straight up to him. ‘Will you step outside for a moment, Mr. MacGowan? I wish to speak with you,’ said he. ‘Better say’t here, whatever it is,’ answered the clerk, stringing his words together as he spoke. ‘Come upstairs for a minute,’ was Beattie’s answer, laying his hand on the other’s arm, and looking straight into his eyes. MacGowan recognised the presence of a stronger will; he staggered to his feet and allowed Beattie to lead him out of the room. Hardly knowing what he was doing, the clerk followed Beattie to a private room which the latter had already engaged. On the table lay two or three sheets of foolscap, an inkstand and pens, while a decanter and some glasses stood on a small side-table. ‘Sit down, MacGowan; you have been enjoying yourself, I see.’ ‘Just for once in a while, Mr. Beattie,’ said the other, with tipsy gravity. ‘_Dulce est desipere--in--loco_, ye ken.’ ‘Exactly; and I’m sorry to interrupt you; but I want to know whether you engrossed a will this afternoon.’ ‘I’m sure I don’t know. Dare say I did.’ ‘Well, it appears you have made a blunder in it. I can’t stop to explain it. It wasn’t your fault really; and it won’t make any difference if you will just copy it over again.’ ‘I can’t--not just now; I’ll do it in the morning;’ and Mr. MacGowan seemed on the point of dropping off to sleep. Beattie roused him with a slap on the shoulder. ‘Come, come,’ he cried, ‘you’re not too tipsy to write----’ ‘Tipsy? Who’s tipsy? I’m not tipsy,’ interrupted the other. ‘All right, then. Come along. See; I’ve ruled a sheet of paper; and I’ll read the draft for you, so that you can make no mistake.’ MacGowan suffered himself to be dragged to the table; and, once there, his mechanical power of copying asserted itself. Steadily his pen moved over the paper, while Beattie looked over the writer’s shoulder, reading every word as it was written, to make sure that no blunder was committed. Before ten o’clock the task was ended. The document was folded, endorsed in the orthodox manner, and safely lodged in Mr. Beattie’s pocket. ‘You’ll stand a bottle of champagne, Mr. Beattie?’ said the clerk, throwing himself back in his chair. ‘Certainly; but I’d advise you to stick to whisky. It’s the healthier of the two,’ said Beattie, slipping half a sovereign into the other’s hand. ‘Hadn’t you better go home now?’ he added, feeling pretty certain that the advice would not be acted upon.