Mr. Belassis’ face fell, and he looked sadly crestfallen. Tor seemed lost in thought, and did not heed for awhile the eager words and arguments his companion continued to urge upon him. At last he woke up, and met his interlocutor with a glance in his eye which the latter did not like. ‘Now look here, sir,’ said Tor: ‘you’ve asked me a question, now let me ask you one. Why are you so very anxious for this marriage?’ ‘Why am—I anxious—why—I,’ stammered Mr. Belassis, taken aback by the tone rather than by the words. ‘You know my motive—it is my interest in Maud’s welfare. As her guardian and her uncle, of course I am anxious for her to do well for herself. Besides, I never liked the terms of that will. I thought the condition a most unjust one, and have been very anxious to bring all right. Your father made it entirely against my will—indeed I never knew—or it never should have stood.’ Under Tor’s cool, steady gaze, Belassis faltered and stumbled, and strove manifestly for an assurance and ease which he was far from feeling. He wished he had taken his wife’s advice, and let his nephew alone. ‘Suppose you drop all that,’ said Tor quietly. ‘I dare say it pays with women and children; but it doesn’t do where you have a man to deal with. My father knew, old Maynard knew, and I know as well as you, how and why that will came to be framed as it was. Men in their senses don’t rob their daughters to enrich their nephews, or set their hearts upon a match between mere children when nothing in the world depends upon it. My father was not mad, only very weak; and I have been told, on good authority, that his legal adviser exercised a very strong influence upon him. It is not hard, therefore, to understand how such an iniquitous will came to be framed.’ Mr. Belassis sat mute and cowed under the spell of Tor’s cool words and keen eyes; but he dared not be silent too long. It would look like a confession of guilt. He pulled himself together, emptied his glass with rather a shaking hand, and answered with creditable firmness. ‘You are quite wrong in your inference, Philip; but I cannot blame you, because you have reason on your side, and you cannot, of course, remember how strange and eccentric a man your father was. Still, I can point out one weak point in your case. That will, which you think was contrary to your father’s real wishes, was drawn up fully two years before his death. Do you suppose, if it had not satisfied him on maturer consideration, that he would have allowed it to stand? He had plenty of time to alter the terms, or to make a fresh will, had he so chosen.’ ‘Exactly so,’ answered Tor, ‘and I am strongly of opinion that he did make a later one.’ He was watching Belassis narrowly, and he saw him start and change colour; moreover, it was some seconds before he was able to speak. ‘Wh—what a very extraordinary idea! A—another will! Why, where ever is it then? Why was it not produced?’