"I'm eighty years old," he remarked. "No, I'm more, to be exact. I shall be eighty-two come February. When you've lived as long as that, young Mr. Pratt, you'll know that this life is a game of topsy-turvy--to some folks, at any rate. Just so!" "You didn't come here to tell me that, Mr. Bartle," said Pratt. He was an essentially practical young man who dined at half-past six every evening, having lunched on no more than bread-and-cheese and a glass of ale, and he also had his evenings well mapped out. "I know that already, sir." "Aye, aye, but you'll know more of it later on," replied Bartle. "Well--you know, too, no doubt, that the late John Mallathorpe was a bit--only a bit--of a book-collector; collected books and pamphlets relating to this district?" "I've heard of it," answered the clerk. "He had that collection in his private room at the mill," continued the old bookseller, "and when the new folks took hold, I persuaded them to sell it to me. There wasn't such a lot--maybe a hundred volumes altogether--but I wanted what there was. And as they were of no interest to them, they sold 'em. That's some months ago. I put all the books in a corner--and I never really examined them until this very afternoon. Then--by this afternoon's post--I got a letter from a Barford man who's now out in America. He wanted to know if I could supply him with a nice copy of Hopkinson's _History of Barford_. I knew there was one in that Mallathorpe collection, so I got it out, and examined it. And in the pocket inside, in which there's a map, I found--what d'ye think?" "Couldn't say," replied Pratt. He was still thinking of his dinner, and of an important engagement to follow it, and he had not the least idea that old Antony Bartle was going to tell him anything very important. "Letters? Bank-notes? Something of that sort?" The old bookseller leaned nearer, across the corner of the desk, until his queer, wrinkled face was almost close to Pratt's sharp, youthful one. Again he lifted the claw-like finger: again he tapped the clerk's arm. "I found John Mallathorpe's will!" he whispered. "His--will!" Linford Pratt jumped out of his chair. For a second he stared in speechless amazement at the old man; then he plunged his hands deep into his trousers' pockets, opened his mouth, and let out a sudden exclamation. "No!" he said. "No! John Mallathorpe's--will? His--will!" "Made the very day on which he died," answered Bartle, nodding emphatically. "Queer, wasn't it? He might have had some--premonition, eh?" Pratt sat down again. "Where is it?" he asked. "Here in my pocket," replied the old bookseller, tapping his rusty coat. "Oh, it's all right, I assure you. All duly made out, signed, and witnessed. Everything in order, I know!--because a long, a very long time ago, I was like you, an attorney's clerk. I've drafted many a will, and witnessed many a will, in my time. I've read this, every word of it--it's all right. Nothing can upset it."