On conditions, of course. It depends on yourself.
But you were brought into this house by a strange chance--you happen to
suit me--to interest me. 'Provvy' as Bentham would say, seems to point to
you. Here--in this drawer"--he brought his hand down strongly on the
writing table--"is a will which I wrote last night. It leaves the whole
of my property to you, subject to certain directions as to the works of
art--to a provision for old Dixon, and so on. You can't witness it, of
course, nor can Dixon; otherwise it might be signed to-night. But if we
come to an understanding to-night, I can sign it to-morrow morning and
get a couple of men from the farm to witness it. I think I can promise to
live so long!"
There was silence. With an uncertain, swaying movement Melrose returned
to his chair. The physical weakness betrayed by the action was strangely
belied, however, by his imperious aspect, as of an embodied Will. His
eyes never left Faversham, even while he rested heavily on the table
before him for support.
Suddenly, Faversham, who had been sitting pale and motionless, looked up.
"Mr. Melrose--have you no natural heirs?"
Melrose could not altogether disguise the shock of the question. He threw
himself back, however, with a smile.
"You have been listening I see to the stories that people tell."
Faversham bent forward and spoke earnestly: "I understand that your wife
and child left you twenty years ago. Are they still living?"
Melrose shrugged his shoulders.
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