about that now. It's too late."

"Who--who was it?" inquired his friend, trying to keep his voice steady.

Mr. Clarkson shook his head. "It's no good talking about that now,
George," he said, eyeing him with sly enjoyment. "I shall have to leave
everything to my wife now. After all, perhaps it does more harm than
good to leave money to people."

"Rubbish!" said Mr. Smithson, sharply. "Who was it?"

"You, George," said Mr. Clarkson, softly.

"Me?" said the other, with a gasp. "Me?" He jumped up from his chair,
and, seizing the other's hand, shook it fervently.

"I oughtn't to have told you, George," said Mr. Clarkson, with great
satisfaction. "It'll only make you miserable. It's just one o' the
might ha' beens."

Mr. Smithson, with his back to the fire and his hands twisted behind him,
stood with his eyes fixed in thought.

"It's rather cool of Phipps," he said, after a long silence; "rather
cool, I think, to go out of the world and just leave his wife to you to
look after. Some men wouldn't stand it. You're too easy-going, Bob,
that's what's the matter with you."

Mr. Clarkson sighed.