Ten o'clock next morning saw him alighting from the train at St.
Neots. A conveyance for which he had telegraphed awaited him at the
station; its driver, a young man of his own age (they had known each
other from boyhood), grinned his broadest as he ran toward Will on
the platform, and relieved him of his bag.

"Well, Sam, how goes it? Everybody flourishing?--Drive first to
Mr. Turnbull's office."

Mr. Turnbull was a grey-headed man of threescore, much troubled with
lumbago, which made him stoop as he walked. He had a visage of
extraordinary solemnity, and seemed to regard every one, no matter
how prosperous or cheerful, with anxious commiseration. At the sight
of Will, he endeavoured to smile, and his handshake, though the
flabbiest possible, was meant for a cordial response to the young
man's heartiness.

"I'm on my way to The Haws, Mr. Turnbull, and wanted to ask if you
could come up and see us this evening?"

"Oh, with pleasure," answered the lawyer, his tone that of one
invited to a funeral. "You may count on me."

"We're winding up at Sherwood's. I don't mean in bankruptcy; but
that wouldn't be far off if we kept going."

"Ah! I can well understand that," said Mr. Turnbull, with a gleam of