"That is your last shot, Malduke, is it, you arch-scoundrel?" he replied. "You and Elms, I happen to know, made away with that Will, as you thought you had done with me. Here it is, however, preserved to confound you—as by the providence of God I have been."
The doctor handed the restored document to one who stood near.
As they read its provisions and discovered them more favourable and liberal than ever the doctor had indicated of old, the sense of their ingratitude unmanned them. They felt as the citizens of Rome when Anthony read the depositions of "Great Caesar." They were filled with remorse. They tried to express contrition.
The doctor seemed as though he heard not.
"It is easy to trust me now," he said calmly. "Would to God you had done so when appearances were against me!"
Some of the company in their rage sought Malduke. He had disappeared.
The doctor, whose thoughts were of another, slipped away, leaving the excited company to pore over the recovered Will, and discuss the unexpected turn events had taken.
"It is she," the doctor murmured, as moving towards the White House he drew near the bench upon which his wife was seated.
"I could not do it—even for their sakes," she was saying. "I dare not dishonour the dead, even to serve those for whom he died."
She pressed her hand to her heart as though to stay its wild, tumultuous beating.
She heard a step approaching.
"That man again!" she exclaimed, springing up. She
