‘No, only a long one; and we can come here as often, in reason, as we please; and Betsy Long can look at the books as she dusts them, if we can’t get here safely ourselves.’ Tor’s gaze deepened in intensity. Metaphorically speaking, he pricked up his ears at this. ‘I believe we shall come to grief, somehow. That girl will betray us.’ ‘Not she; she knows better than to forfeit double wages, and lose both her places.’ But Belassis was not to be comforted. ‘I don’t believe we shall ever do any good by this; and I’m getting quite done up with these disturbed nights.’ Mrs. Belassis looked him all over with a cold contempt, which seemed to wither him up. When she spoke, it was with a crushing disdain. ‘Really, Mr. Belassis, I have half a mind to take you at your word, and give up this attempt—and leave others to find Philip Debenham’s last will. It seems to me that you would rather live, with total ruin hanging over your head, than give up a few nights’ rest and take a little trouble. Anyone more hopelessly pusillanimous, it has never been my lot to come across!’ ‘It seems such a hopeless search, my dear,’ began Belassis feebly. ‘If we really _knew_ the will was here, it would be different.’ ‘We do know it!’ snapped Mrs. Belassis. ‘Philip Debenham told old Tom Maynard that he had hidden it here. We have that in his own handwriting. What more do you want?’ ‘Old Maynard could never find the will, though.’ ‘Old Maynard had not the same motive that we have. He would soon grow tired of the search.’ ‘He thought Debenham must have destroyed it.’ ‘He did not know what we do.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘He did not know how Philip Debenham feared, and hated, and distrusted us, during the last years of his life.’ There was a pause, which Mrs. Belassis broke. ‘Come, Alfred, do have a little common-sense. You know, as well as I do, that Philip Debenham simply made that will at your dictation, because he was weak and foolish, and believed you had much more power to do him mischief than you really had, if he had only played the man and taken his affairs into his own hands. We both knew he would not allow that will to stand, if he could possibly make another, and we always expected that a later one would turn up amongst his papers, and were prepared to act accordingly; but it did not. Nobody brought one forward, and we never found any evidence of the existence of a second will. You know, however, that we have never felt absolutely at ease on the subject, although, as years passed by, it seemed most improbable that anything could or would turn up. Then, when I found that letter of old Maynard’s to young Philip, and discovered the pencil memorandum inside, which he had never read, it became evident that our suspicions had all along been correct. He had made a new will, and had hidden it, with more cunning than I should have given him credit for, at Ladywell, out of our reach. Knowing all this, how can you pretend that it is not worth searching for?’