"Oh, he'd have signed it!" cried Gaylor. "But what's it worth
now! Nothing! Thanks to you two -- nothing! They'll claim undue
influence, they'll claim he signed it under the influence of
mediums -- of ghosts." His voice shook with anger and distress.
"You've ruined me!" he cried. "You've ruined me."

He turned and paced from them, his fingers interlacing, his
teeth biting upon his lower lip. The two other men glanced at
each other uncomfortably; their silence seemed to assure Gaylor
that already they regretted what they had done. He stood over
Garrett, and for an instant laid his hand upon his shoulder. His
voice now was sane and cold.

"I've worked three years for this," he said. "And for you, too,
Jim. You know that. I've worked on his vanity, on his fear of
death, on his damn superstition. When he talked of restitution,
of giving the money to his niece, I asked Why?' I said, Leave it
for a great monument to your memory. Isn't it better that ten
million dollars should be spent in good works in your name than
that it should go to a chit of a child to be wasted by some
fortune hunter? And -- then -- I evolved the Hallowell
Institute, university, hospital, library, all under one roof,
all under one direction; and I would have been the director. We
should have handled ten millions of dollars! I'd have made you
both so rich," he cried savagely, "that in two years you'd have
drunk yourselves into a mad-house. And you couldn't trust me!
You've filled this house with fakes and palm-readers. And, now,
every one will know just what he is -- a senile, half-witted old
man who was clay in my hands, clay in my hands -- and you've