"Quiet, you fool," I whispered. "If you waken any of the household, it will be the end of you,—write."
"'My master's cigars, spirits and money on the night of October the thirteenth, nineteen hundred and nine.'"
"Sign it."
He did so, great beads of sweat standing out on his lean, hard face.
"Now give it to me. I have done no harm, and if you keep quiet, there will be no trouble. Good-night, Jacques."
I crossed the road once more, feeling pretty safe. Jacques dare not say a word. What could he say? Friende himself might escape but most likely not. He was a great smoker, and without doubt he would use two or three of those pipes that I had turned into such deadly traps.
I slept quite well that night, and woke up quite fresh in the morning.
Would Fate prove kind or false?
Would Friende get ill before he altered his will? All was quiet during that first day.
On the second day a carriage drew up at Mr. Humphrey Friende's house—a doctor's carriage.
Eureka!—he was ill.
