"There's a young woman down-stairs, sir, wishes to see you most
particular."

"Ah, indeed! Who is she? What is her business with me?"

"I don't know, sir. Something very important, she says."

"Show her up."

The girl departed, ran down-stairs, ran up again, followed by a
respectable-looking young woman of pleasing aspect.

"Well, my child,"--he was very fatherly and bland, was the Reverend
Raymond Rashleigh--"and what may you want with me?"

"My Mistress sent me, sir. I am Mrs. Holywell's maid."

"Indeed!" said Mr. Rashleigh, vividly interested at once; "and how is
Mrs. Holywell?"

"Very poorly, sir. She thinks she's dying herself. She wants to make her
will to-night; that's why she sent for you."

Mr. Rashleigh rose with very unwonted alacrity.

She was a distant relative of his, this dying Mrs. Holywell;
ridiculously rich for a childless widow, and with no nearer heir than
the reverend pastor of St. Pancras' Church.