Mrs. Mallathorpe frowned again.

"Why shouldn't I?" she demanded. "It was the only explanation I could
possibly give him. How do I know what the old man really wanted?"

Pratt drew his chair still nearer to the desk. His voice dropped to a
whisper and his eyes were full of meaning.

"I'll tell you what he wanted!" he said speaking very slowly. "It's what
I've come for. Listen! Antony Bartle came to our office soon after five
yesterday afternoon. I was alone--everybody else had gone. I took him
into Eldrick's room. He told me that in turning over one of the books
which he had bought from Mallathorpe Mill, some short time ago, he had
found--what do you think?"

Mrs. Mallathorpe's cheek had flushed at the mention of the books from
the Mill. Now, at Pratt's question, and under his searching eye, she
turned very pale, and the clerk saw her fingers tighten on the arms of
her chair.

"What?" she asked. "What?"

"John Mallathorpe's will!" he answered. "Do you understand? His--will!"

The woman glanced quickly about her--at the doors, the uncurtained
window.

"Safe enough here," whispered Pratt. "I made sure of that. Don't be
afraid--no one knows--but me."