'Anything. A will we ought to have at any cost. Its absence may be the cause of endless confusion.' 'I can only say, sir, that if the Marquis of Twickenham has not made a will already he never will. Any attempt to rouse him, such as you appear to suggest, might result in his instant death. If we succeeded he would be incapable of doing what you require.' Foster turned to Reggie. 'I can only say that, from your point of view, your brother might as well have continued an absentee as, under the present circumstances, die intestate.' I struck in. 'That's absurd. Lord Reginald will succeed.' 'Will he? Don't be too sure. There will always be a probability of other claimants. Opposition may come from a dozen quarters. How can we tell what connections such a man as he has been may not have formed during fifteen years?' As he propounded this delightful proposition an extraordinary thing took place. Once more the sleeper awoke. He just opened his eyes and looked at us. 'Where's Foster?' That gentleman swung round with comical rapidity. 'My lord, I am here.' 'About--what you were asking me. I've--never been married. Curse a wife, I've always said.' 'Is that so, my lord?' Then, in an aside to us,' You are all witnesses.' 'My brother's to have everything. Why the devil--hasn't he come--to see me?' 'I have.' Reggie moved forward. Foster whispered to him as he drew back. 'Keep him engaged in conversation if you can. I'll draw up a short form embodying what he's said. I'll get him to sign it if it's to be done.' The lawyer retired to a table on which there were pens and ink. The man in the bed looked up at Reggie with unblinking eyes. 'You're not my--brother.' 'I am.' 'You don't--look--like my brother. He--was only a boy. Come--closer. Lean--down. I can't--see you--that way off.' Reggie leaned over the bed. The sick man put up his hand, from which I observed that the bank-notes had disappeared--though I had seen nothing of the sleight-of-hand which had spirited them away--and with his fingers softly stroked the young man's face. Reggie remained perfectly quiescent while he did it. 'You're--like--your mother. Thank God--you're not--your father's son.' When he said this I was conscious of a catching in my breath. The thing was true. Though how he knew it--save on one presumption--was beyond me altogether. Reggie bore a striking resemblance to his mother, and none whatever to his father. The man in the bed droned on. 'Your--mother--was a good woman. Your--father--was a beast. Like me. Are you--a beast?' 'I hope not.' 'Most men are. Poor devils!' There was a pause before he spoke again. He still touched Reggie softly with his finger-tips, as if doing so brought him a curious sort of comfort. 'You're like your mother, Reggie?' 'Yes.' 'I wish--I wish----. You know what I wish.' His hand dropped limply back upon the bed. He lay still, though his eyes continued open. Hancock turned to Foster.