here like a log, but I'm ill—yes, I'm very ill, Mr. Hart. Well, that doesn't matter. Help yourself to a cigar and something to drink."
I did as he wished, and when I had seated myself in the chair on the other side of the fireplace, I said:
"I'm afraid I can't stop very long. Two fellows are dining with me. They are waiting for me to return."
"That makes it all the more kind of you to come," said Arum. "Well, I shan't keep you long."
He thrust his left hand into one of the inner pockets of his coat, drew out a folded document and handed it to me.
"That is my will," he said, "and I want you to keep it for me. I have never cared for banks or lawyers, and I daresay people have told you that I never write a check."
"You surely don't keep all your money in your house," I exclaimed.
It was an unpardonable remark, but I could not help making it.
"I beg your pardon," I continued, "I had no right to say anything of the sort. It is no business of mine."
"Yes, it is your business, Mr. Hart. I have appointed you the sole executor of my will, and have left you five hundred pounds for your trouble."
This was an astonishing piece of information.
"Oh, really, Mr. Arum!" I said.
"If you can't accept the job," Arum continued, "I shall put my niece in your place. She inherits practically everything. But she is rather a silly child. I'd like to have a man's help in this matter."
I hesitated for a few moments and then I said:
"All right, Mr. Arum. It's really uncommonly good of you."
"Well, that's settled," he said cheerfully. "Now I want you to read the will."
I opened out the thick sheet of paper, and began to read the contents. There was a legacy of a thousand pounds to "my old and faithful servant, William Brike," and there was a further legacy to "John Hart of Harthaven Hall" in consideration of his undertaking the duties of executor, Everything else was left to Audrey Pinson.
And then I came to the signature, and it was that which startled me. It was hardly legible an untidy scrawl that would have disgraced a child of ten. I looked up at Jacob Arum, and he laughed.
"Not much of a fist, eh?" he said. "I never could learn to write with my left hand," Then he moved his right arm, covered halfway to the elbow with the rug, and showed me an iron hook—one of those old-fashioned things that I imagined had long ago been cast into the dustheap.
"That's one of my troubles," he said, "and the other is my heart."
"Bad accident," he said. "Years ago. One doesn't care to go about among people and have them ask whether one was wounded in France or Mesopotamia. Besides, I hate people. I like my own society—my books, my furniture, my pictures. All that will be sold when I die. That's all I've got except a little cash to go on with—last my time, I expect. The contents of this house are worth forty thousand pounds."
He leant his head back and closed his eyes, as though he had exhausted himself by so much talking.
"You'd better have a drink," I said. "Shall I mix one for you?"
"Thanks," he said faintly. "I believe it would brighten me up a bit."
I gave him a strong brandy-and-soda, and told him that he ought to see a doctor.
"I don't know if a doctor can do you any good, Mr. Arum," I said; "but if you have a bad heart you certainly ought to see one."
He shook his head.
"They're all rogues," he replied. "I don't believe in them at all. My faith in God won't let me believe in them. How can they interfere with God's will?"
I had heard this talk before, from the "Peculiar People" who lived in a village not more than ten miles from Harthaven.
"What about your hand?" I queried. "I suppose you ought really to have bled to death."
"Ah, then—I did not know the truth," he said simply. "I can see now that I was meant to die. Please don't argue with me. It is a matter of faith with me. But I am glad to be able to tell you what I believe. I don't want my faithful Brike to be blamed for my death."
I saw that there was nothing to be gained by argument. I suggested that he should give me an inventory of the things in the house.
"You see," I explained, "if the contents of this house represent your fortune, I think I ought to know just what there is in the place."
It seemed that I had only anticipated his own request. I followed his instructions and found a thick quarto volume, bound in green morocco, in one of the book-cases.
"That is a full catalogue," he said, "and there are photographs of the most valuable pieces. If you care for such things, you will find it of considerable interest. Now, Mr. Hart, if there is anything you wish to ask me—well, there is no time like the present. We may not meet again."
"Oh, come, come," I said cheerfully. "You're not so bad as all that."
"I do not know when my time will come," he replied; "it may be soon or late. But in any case it is doubtful if I shall see you again."
I offered to call and look him up any time he chose to send for me, but he shook his head.
"That is most kind of you," he replied; "but habits of long standing are not easily broken. I am very grateful to you for having come to my assistance."
I opened out the will, which I still held in my hand, and looked at the names of the witnesses.
"Shall I have any difficulty in finding these people?" I asked.
He assured me that there would be no difficulty. They were both young people, and, so far as he knew, they were both alive.
I folded up the document and placed it in my pocket. Mr. Arum touched the button of a small electric bell. Then he held out his left hand to me.
"Again I thank you," he said gently.
"It is I who have to thank you," I answered with a smile, "for your very handsome legacy. I only hope that it will not come my way for many years."
"Ah, you will have to work for it, Mr. Hart. There is so much to be arranged. Good-night and good-by."
The door opened and Brike came softly into the room. He came to his master's side and said:
"Ah, you have been tiring yourself, sir. You ought not to have let this gentleman stay here for so long."
"We have said all we wished to say," Arum answered. "Please accompany Mr. Hart to the car."
I followed Brike out on to the landing and down the stairs. The door of the drawing-room was open, and I could see Audrey Pinson standing by a table with a letter in her hand. She was trying to read it by the feeble light of the candles in the chandelier, but, as I paused a moment gazing at her—admiring the exquisite picture of that slim figure against the background of an old mirror—she looked up at me.
"I have a word to say to Miss Pinson," I exclaimed abruptly. "Perhaps you will kindly go on and tell my chauffeur to start up the car. It takes some little warming on a cold night."
The fellow began to protest, but I cut him short with a curt, "Kindly mind
