hoes. Could this mean that he was going to draw up a
will, disinheriting Harold Tillington?

And, suppose he did, what then? My heart was in a tumult. If Harold were
rich--well and good, I could never marry him. But, if Harold were poor--
I must keep my promise. Could I wish him to be rich? Could I wish him to
be poor? My heart stood divided two ways within me.

The Urbane Old Gentleman began with immense deliberation, as befits a
man of principle when Property is at stake. 'You will kindly take down
notes from my dictation,' he said, fussing with his papers; 'and
afterwards, I will ask you to be so good as to copy it all out fair on
your typewriter for signature.'

'Is a typewritten form legal?' I ventured to inquire.

'A most perspicacious young lady!' he interjected, well pleased. 'I have
investigated that point, and find it perfectly regular. Only, if I may
venture to say so, there should be no erasures.'

'There shall be none,' I answered.

The Urbane Old Gentleman leant back in his easy chair, and began
dictating from his notes with tantalising deliberateness. This was the
last will and testament of him, Marmaduke Courtney Ashurst. Its verbiage
wearied me. I was eager for him to come to the point about Harold.
Instead of that, he did what it seems is usual in such cases--set out
with a number of unimportant legacies to old family servants and other
hangers-on among 'our poorer brethren.' I fumed and fretted inwardly.
Next came a series of quaint bequests of a quite novel character. 'I
give and bequeath to James Walsh and Sons, of 720 High Holborn, London,
the sum of Five Hundred Pounds, in consideration of the benefit they
have conferred upon humanity by the invention of a sugar-spoon or silver
sugar-sifter, by means of which it is possible to dust sugar upon a
tart or pudding without letting the whole or the greater part of the
material run through the apertures uselessly in transit. You must have
observed, Miss Cayley--with your usual perspicacity--that most
sugar-sifters allow the sugar to fall through them on to the table
prematurely.'

'I have noticed it,' I answered, trembling with anxiety.

'James Walsh and Sons, acting on a hint from me, have succeeded in
inventing a form of spoon which does not possess that regrettable
drawback. "Run through the apertures uselessly in transit," I think I
said last. Yes, thank you. Very good. We will now continue. And I give
and bequeath the like sum of Five Hundr