He looked at Hiram for the first time in nearly half an hour. He was alarmed by the haggard, ghastly gray of that majestic face; and his thought was not for his plan probably about to be thwarted by the man's premature death, but of his own selfishness in wearying and imperiling him by importunity at such a time. "But we'll talk of this again," he said sadly, putting the paper in his pocket and rising for instant departure. "Give me the paper," said Hiram, putting out his trembling hand, but not lifting his heavy, blue-black lids. Mark gave it to him hesitatingly. "You'd better put it off till you're stronger, Hiram." "I'll see," said Hiram. "Good morning, Mark." * * * * * Judge Torrey was the next to get Ranger's summons; it came toward mid-afternoon of that same day. Like Hargrave, Torrey had been his life-long friend. "Torrey," he said, "I want you to examine this plan"--and he held up the paper Hargrave had left--"and, if it is not legal, put it into legal shape, and incorporate it into my will. I feel I ain't got much time." With a far-away, listening look--"I must put my house in order--in order. Draw up a will and bring it to me before five o'clock. I want you to write it yourself--trust no one--no one!" His eyes were bright, his cheeks bluish, and he spoke in a thick, excited voice that broke and shrilled toward the end of each sentence. "I can't do it to-day. Too much haste--" "To-day!" commanded Hiram. "I won't rest till it's done!" "Of course, I can--" "Read the paper now, and give me your opinion." Torrey put on his glasses, opened the paper. "Oh!" he exclaimed. "I remember this. It's in my partner's handwriting. Hargrave had Watson draw it up about five years ago. We were very careful in preparing it. It is legal." "Very well," continued Hiram. "Now I'll give you the points of my will." Torrey took notebook and pencil from his pocket. "First," began Hiram, as if he were reciting something he had learned by heart, "to my wife, Ellen, this house and everything in it, and the grounds and all the horses and carriages and that kind of thing." "Yes," said Torrey, looking up from his note making. "Second, to my wife an income of seven thousand a year for life--that is what it cost her and me to live last year, and the children--except the extras. Seven thousand for life--but only for life." "Yes," said Torrey, his glance at Hiram now uneasy and expectant. "Third, to my daughter, Adelaide, two thousand a year for her life--to be divided among her daughters equally, if she have any; if not, to revert to my estate at her death." "Yes," said Torrey. "Fourth, to my son, five thousand dollars in cash." A long pause, Torrey looking at his old friend and client as if he thought one or the other of them bereft of his senses. At last, he said, "Yes, Hiram."