"Just like Silas, that was! Just!... He died from a motor accident. He
was perfectly conscious and knew he'd only a few hours to live. Spine.
He made his will in hospital, and died about a couple of hours after
he'd made it. I wasn't there myself. I was in New York."

"Well, well!" muttered Mr. Prohack. "Poor fellow! Well, well! This is
the most amazing tale I ever heard in my life."

"It _is_ rather strange," Mr. Bishop compassionately admitted.

A silence fell--respectful to the memory of the dead. The members'
coffee-room seemed to Mr. Prohack to be a thousand miles off, and the
chat with his cronies at the table in the window-embrasure to have
happened a thousand years ago. His brain was in anarchy, and waving like
a flag above the anarchy was the question: "How much did old Silas
leave?" But the deceitful fellow would not permit the question to utter
itself,--he had dominion over himself at any rate to that extent. He
would not break the silence; he would hide his intense curiosity; he
would force Softly Bishop to divulge the supreme fact upon his own
initiative.

And at length Mr. Bishop remarked, musingly:

"Yes. Thanks to the exchange being so low, you stand to receive at the
very least a hundred thousand pounds clear--after all deductions have
been made."

"Do I really?" said Mr. Prohack, also musingly.