"Only Mr. Gorkin."

"Desire Gorkin to run out and fetch me a
Continental Bradshaw."

Mr. Keckwitch retired; despatched the red-
headed clerk; took down a dusty deed-box from
a still dustier corner cupboard; brought forth
the old yellow parchment for which his employer
had just inquired, and slipped the same within
the lid of his desk. Having done this, he took
an armful of mouldy deeds from another shelf of
the same cupboard, and littered them all about
the desk and floor. Just as he had completed
these arrangements, Gorkin returned, breathless,
with the volume in his hand, and Mr. Keckwitch
took it in.

"And the copy?" said Mr. Trefalden, without
lifting his eyes from an old book of maps over
which he was bending.

"l am looking for it, sir," replied the head
clerk.

"Very good."

"Gorkin may go, I suppose, sir? It's more
than half-past five."

"Of course; and you too, when you have
found the deed."

Mr. Keckwitch retired again, released the
grateful Gorkin, placed himself at his desk, and
proceeded with much deliberation to read the
will.

"What's at the bottom of it?" muttered he,
presently, as he paused with one fat finger on
the opening sentence. " What's wrong?
Something. I heard it in his voice. I saw it in his
face. And he knew I should see it, too, when
he called out about the shade. What is it?
What's he peering into those maps about? Why
does he want this copy? He never asked for it
before. There ain't a farthing coming to him,
I know. I've read it before. But I'll read
it again, for all that. A man can never know
too much of his employer's private affairs.
Not much chance of learning a great deal
of his, either. Confounded private he keeps
'em."

He read on a little further, and then paused
again.

"Why did he send for that Continental Bradshaw?"
he questioned to himself. " Why can I
go, too, when there's plenty to be done here, and
he knows it? He wants me gone—why? Where's
he goin' himself? What's he up to? Abel
Keckwitch, Abel Keckwitch, my best of friends,
keep your right eye open!"

And with this apostrophe he returned to the
deed, and proceeded with it sedulously.

"Well, Keckwitch," cried Mr. Trefalden, from
the inner room, " have you found the copy?"

'Not yet, sir," replied that trusty fellow, who
was then rather more than half way through it.
"But I've turned out a boxful of old parchments,
and I think I shall be sure—-"

"Enough. Look closely for it, and bring it as
soon as it turns up."

"It will turn up," murmured Mr. Keckwitch,
"as soon as I have finished it."

And so it did, about five minutes after, when
Mr. Keckwitch made his appearance with it at
his master's door.

"Found? That's right!" exclaimed the lawyer,
putting out his hand eagerly.

"I won't be sure, sir, till you've looked
at it," replied the head clerk, with becoming
modesty.

Mr. Trefalden's fingers closed on the document,
but his eyes flashed keenly into the lustreless
orbs of Mr. Abel Keckwitch, and rested
there a moment before they reverted to the
endorsement.

"Humph!" said he, in a slightly altered
tone. " Yes—it's quite right, thank you. Good
night."

"Good night, sir."

Mr. Trefalden looked after him suspiciously,
and continued to do so, even when the door had
been closed between them.

"The man's false," said he. "None but,
spies have so little curiosity. I shouldn't
wonder if he's read every line."

Then he rose, locked the door, trimmed the
lamp, dismissed the subject from his thoughts,
and began to read the will. As he read, his
brow darkened, and his lip grew stern. Presently
he pushed the deed aside, and jotted down row
after row of cyphers on a piece of blotting-paper.
Then he went back to the deed, and
back again to the cyphers, and every moment the
frown settled deeper and deeper on his brow.
Such a complex train of hopes and doubts,
speculations and calculations as were traversing
the mazes of that busy brain! Sometimes he
pondered in silence. Sometimes he muttered
through his teeth; but so inaudibly, that had
there even been a listener at the door (as perhaps
there was), that listener would not have been a
syllable the wiser.

He took up a little almanack printed on a.
card, and cast up the weeks between the fourth
of March and the third of April. There were
not quite five. Not quite five weeks to the
expiration of this long, long century, during
which Jacob Trefalden's half million had been
accumulating, interest upon interest during which
whole generations had been born, and lived, and
had passed away! Good Heavens! to what a sum
it had grown. It amounted now to nine million
five hundred and fifty-two thousand four hundred
and odd pounds! Words—mere words!
His brain refused to realise them, he might
as well have tried to realise the distance
between the sun and the earth. And this
gigantic bequest was to be divided between a
charity and an heir. Half! Even the half
baffled him. Even the half seemed too vast to
convey any tangible idea to his mind. Even the
half amounted to four million seven hundred
and seventy-six thousand two hundred and odd
pounds. Pshaw! both were so inconceivable,
that the one produced no more effect upon his
imagination than the other.

He took up his pen, and made a rapid calculation.