"I know," he thought, and he laughed bitterly. "To my dear old friend, Peter Praed, M.D., my cellar of wine, the Turner picture, and one hundred pounds to buy a mourning ring and as recompense for acting as my executor. To my servants fifty pounds each and six months' wages. To my son Jessop the interest on bank-stock to produce five hundred pounds per annum, paid in quarterly dividends. To my beloved son, Clive Reed, the whole of my remaining property in bank-stock, shares, and my interest in the `White Virgin' mine in the county of Derby. Hah! yes," he said aloud, "and it is good, or the old man would not have taken it up as he has. Yes, it is no balloon business puffed into a state of inflation, but a genuine, solid affair. All to him, and he is co-executor with the Doctor. He said he had made him so months ago; I am nowhere. And that's my father!" He bit off a piece of the end of his cigar and spat it out angrily, but started up as a thought struck him. "No, that's not all," he muttered, as his eyes flashed,--"Janet!" "Of course," he said, with a long-drawn breath, full of satisfaction, "he would not forget her. He worshipped the girl, and he would leave her quite independent of Clive. A hundred thousand, if he has left her a penny. The artful little jade: she played her cards right with the old man." He started from the chair, threw the cigar-end into the fireplace, and hurried up to the drawing-room, to find it empty, and rang the bell. "Where is Miss Praed?" he asked, as the servant appeared. "She was fetched up into poor master's room, sir." Jessop Reed went back to the study, and shut himself in, his brow contracted more and more, and lighting another cigar, he lay back smoking and thinking intently, but with his face less clouded by anger, as he felt more and more satisfied that he was right about his father's disposition of his property, and over his own plans and those of his friend Wrigley. "There is such a thing as salvage when there is a fire," he said, with a laugh which disfigured his handsome features; "and it comes in too after a wreck. Well, we shall see, my dear brother; matters may balance themselves fairly after all." He started almost out of his chair just then, for a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and there stood pretty, fair-haired Lyddy, with her eyes red and swollen with weeping. "How did you get here?" cried Jessop angrily. "I opened the door, dear, and came in softly; didn't you hear me?" "Hear you? No; and how many more times am I to tell you not to call me dear?" "Oh, Jessop, don't, don't!" cried the poor girl, bursting into tears. "Poor master! he's dying fast, they say, and there'll be no need to hide anything from him now." "But--but--" "I was on the staircase watching for you, dear, and you were shut up here so long, instead of being with master, that I was afraid you were ill."