"It was very good of you," I said. "The funeral will be at ten o'clock to-morrow morning, from the house." "You had a telegram from me?" "Yes," I answered. He hitched about in his chair uneasily for a moment. I knew what he wanted to say, but saw no reason to help him. "He left a will, I suppose?" he asked, at last. "Oh, yes; we have arranged to probate it Monday. You can examine it then, if you wish." "Have you examined it?" "I am familiar with its provisions. It was drawn here in the office." He was pulling furiously at his moustache. "Cousin Philip was a very wealthy man, I understand," he managed to say. "Comparatively wealthy. He had securities worth about a million and a quarter, besides a number of pieces of real property--and, of course, the house he lived in. He owned a very valuable collection of art objects--pictures, furniture, tapestries, and such things; but what they are worth will probably never be known." "Why not?" he asked. "Because he left them all to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Outside of a few legacies to old servants, he left his whole fortune to the same institution." I put it rather brutally, no doubt, but I was anxious to end the interview. Mr. Morgan's face grew very red. "He did!" he ejaculated. "Ha--well, I have heard he was rather crazy." "He was as sane as any man I ever knew," I retorted drily. And then I remembered the doubts which had assailed me that last day, when Vantine was fingering the Boule cabinet. But I kept those doubts to myself. "Ha--we'll have to see about that!" said my visitor, threateningly. "By all means, Mr. Morgan," I assented heartily. "If you have any doubt about it, you should certainly look into it. And now, if you will pardon me, I have many things to do, and we close early to-day." He got to his feet and went slowly out; and that was the last I ever saw of him. I suppose he consulted an attorney, learned the hopeless nature of his case, and took the first train back to Osage City. He did not even wait for the funeral. Few people, indeed, put themselves out for it. There was a sprinkling of old family friends, representatives of the museum and of various charities in which Vantine had been interested, a few friends of his own, and that was all. He had dropped out of the world with scarcely a ripple; of all who had known him, I dare say Parks felt his departure most. For Vantine had been, in a sense, a solitary man; not many men nodded oftener during a walk up the Avenue, and yet not many dined oftener alone; for there was about him a certain self-detachment which discouraged intimacy. He was a man, like many another, with acquaintances in every country on the globe, and friends in none.