Yet again the lawyer's tongue, sphinxlike from habit, refused to utter the tidings it guarded. "The will," he presently resumed, "of my client, Miss Ellen Webster." He was rewarded by seeing a shock of surprise run through Martin's frame. "I don't see how Miss Webster's will can be any concern of mine," Martin replied stiffly. The attorney ignored the observation. Continuing with serenity, he observed: "As I understand it, you and Miss Webster were not----" he coughed hesitatingly behind his hand. "No, we weren't," cut in Martin. "She was a meddling, aggravating old harridan. I hated her, and I'm glad she's gone." "That is an unfortunate sentiment," remarked Mr. Benton, "unfortunate and disconcerting, because, you see, Miss Ellen Webster has left you all her property." "_Me_! Left _me_ her property!" The dynamic shock behind the words sent the man to his feet. Mr. Benton nodded calmly. "Yes," he reiterated, "Miss Webster has made you her sole legatee." Martin regarded his visitor stupidly. "I reckon there's some mistake, sir," he contrived to stammer. "No, there isn't--there's no mistake. The will was legally drawn up only a few days before the death of the deceased. No possible question can be raised as to her sanity, or the clearness of her wishes concerning her property. She desired everything to come to you." "Let me see the paper!" cried Martin. "I should prefer to read it to you." Slowly Mr. Benton took out his spectacles, polished, and adjusted them. Then with impressive deliberation he drew forth and unfolded with a mighty rustling the last will and testament of Ellen Webster, spinster. Many a time he had mentally rehearsed this scene, and now he presented it with a dignity that amazed and awed. Every _whereas_ and _aforesaid_ rolled out with due majesty, its resonance echoing to the ceiling of the chilly little parlor. As Martin listened, curiosity gave place to wonder, wonder to indignation. But when at last the concluding condition of the bequest was reached, the rebuilding of the wall, an oath burst from his lips. "The harpy!" he shouted. "The insolent hell hag!" "Softly, my dear sir, softly!" pleaded Mr. Benton in soothing tones. "I'll have nothin' to do with it--nothin'!" stormed Martin. "You can bundle your paper right out of here, Benton. Rebuild that wall! Good God! Why, I wouldn't do it if I was to be flayed alive. Ellen Webster knew that well enough. She was perfectly safe when she left me her property with that tag hitched to it. She did it as a joke--a cussed joke--out of pure deviltry. 'Twas like her, too. She couldn't resist giving me one last jab, even if she had to wait till she was dead and gone to do it." Like an infuriated beast Martin tramped the floor. Mr. Benton did not speak for a few moments; then he observed mildly: "You understand that if you refuse to accept the property it will be turned over to the county for a poor farm."