was nettled. You didn't get me at all. I asked you what was to become
of my money after I'd done spending it myself--the little that is
left, of course."

Once more from the lawyer's eyes flashed that keenly scrutinizing
glance.

"What was it, Fulton? A midnight rabbit, or a wedge of mince pie NOT
like mother used to make? Why, man alive, you're barely over fifty,
yet. Cheer up! It's only a little matter of indigestion. There are a
lot of good days and good dinners coming to you, yet."

The millionaire made a wry face.

"Very likely--if I survive the biscuits. But, seriously, Ned, I'm in
earnest. No, I don't think I'm going to die--yet awhile. But I ran
across young Bixby last night--got him home, in fact. Delivered him to
his white-faced little wife. Talk about your maudlin idiots!"

"Yes, I know. Too bad, too bad!"

"Hm-m; well, that's what one million did--inherited. It set me to
thinking--of mine, when I get through with them."

"I see." The lawyer's lips came together a little grimly. "You've not
made your will, I believe."

"No. Dreaded it, somehow. Funny how a man'll fight shy of a little
thing like that, isn't it? And when we're so mighty particular where
it goes while we're living!"