The room he entered was square, with dusky picture-hung walls. In its centre, about a table lit by veiled lamps, he fancied Mr. Lavington and his guests to be already seated at dinner; then he perceived that the table was covered not with viands but with papers, and that he had blundered into what seemed to be his host’s study. As he paused Frank Rainer looked up. “Oh, here’s Mr. Faxon. Why not ask him--?” Mr. Lavington, from the end of the table, reflected his nephew’s smile in a glance of impartial benevolence. “Certainly. Come in, Mr. Faxon. If you won’t think it a liberty--” Mr. Grisben, who sat opposite his host, turned his head toward the door. “Of course Mr. Faxon’s an American citizen?” Frank Rainer laughed. “That’s all right!... Oh, no, not one of your pin-pointed pens, Uncle Jack! Haven’t you got a quill somewhere?” Mr. Balch, who spoke slowly and as if reluctantly, in a muffled voice of which there seemed to be very little left, raised his hand to say: “One moment: you acknowledge this to be--?” “My last will and testament?” Rainer’s laugh redoubled. “Well, I won’t answer for the ‘last.’ It’s the first, anyway.” “It’s a mere formula,” Mr. Balch explained. “Well, here goes.” Rainer dipped his quill in the inkstand his uncle had pushed in his direction, and dashed a gallant signature across the document. Faxon, understanding what was expected of him, and conjecturing that the young man was signing his will on the attainment of his majority, had placed himself behind Mr. Grisben, and stood awaiting his turn to affix his name to the instrument. Rainer, having signed, was about to push the paper across the table to Mr. Balch; but the latter, again raising his hand, said in his sad imprisoned voice: “The seal--?” “Oh, does there have to be a seal?” Faxon, looking over Mr. Grisben at John Lavington, saw a faint frown between his impassive eyes. “Really, Frank!” He seemed, Faxon thought, slightly irritated by his nephew’s frivolity. “Who’s got a seal?” Frank Rainer continued, glancing about the table. “There doesn’t seem to be one here.” Mr. Grisben interposed. “A wafer will do. Lavington, you have a wafer?” Mr. Lavington had recovered his serenity. “There must be some in one of the drawers. But I’m ashamed to say I don’t know where my secretary keeps these things. He ought to have seen to it that a wafer was sent with the document.” “Oh, hang it--” Frank Rainer pushed the paper aside: “It’s the hand of God--and I’m as hungry as a wolf. Let’s dine first, Uncle Jack.” “I think I’ve a seal upstairs,” said Faxon. Mr. Lavington sent him a barely perceptible smile. “So sorry to give you the trouble--” “Oh, I say, don’t send him after it now. Let’s wait till after dinner!”