The document began by stating that the testator’s former will was declared null and void on account of the “treacherous and dishonourable conduct of his son Philip.”  It then, in brief but sweeping terms, bequeathed and devised to trustees, of whom Philip was not one, the unentailed property and personalty to be held by them:  firstly, for the benefit of any son that might be born to the said disinherited Philip by his wife Hilda—­the question of daughters being, probably by accident, passed over in silence—­and failing such issue, then to the testator’s nephew, George Caresfoot, absolutely, subject, however, to the following curious condition:  Should the said George Caresfoot, either by deed of gift or will, attempt to convey the estate to his cousin Philip, or to descendants of the said Philip, then the gift over to the said George was to be of none effect, and the whole was to pass to some distant cousins of the testator’s who lived in Scotland.  Then followed several legacies and one charge on the estate to the extent of 1000 pounds a year payable to the separate use of the aforesaid Hilda Caresfoot for life, and reverting at death to the holder of the estate.

In plain English, Philip was, under this draft, totally disinherited, first in favour of his own male issue, by his wife Hilda, all mention of daughters being omitted, and failing such issue, in favour of his hated cousin George, who, as though to add insult to injury, was prohibited from willing the property back either to himself or his descendants, by whom the testator had probably understood the children of a second marriage.

Philip read the document over twice carefully.

“Phew!” he said, “that was touch and go.  Thank heavens he had no time to carry out his kind intentions.”

But presently a terrible thought struck him.  He rang the bell hastily.  It was answered by the footman, who, since he had an hour before helped to carry his poor master upstairs, had become quite demoralized.  It was some time before Philip could get an answer to his question as to whether or no any one had been with his father that day whilst he was out.  At last he succeeded in extracting a reply from the man that nobody had been except the young lady—­“leastways, he begged pardon, Mrs. Caresfoot, as he was told she was.”

“Never mind her,” said Philip, feeling as though a load had been taken from his breast, “you are sure nobody else has been?”

“No, sir, nobody, leastways he begged pardon, nobody except lawyer Bellamy and his clerk, who had been there all the afternoon writing, with a black bag, and had sent for Simmons to be witnessed.”

“You can go,” said Philip, in a quiet voice.  He saw it all now, he had let the old man die after he had executed the fresh will disinheriting him.  He had let him die; he had effectually and beyond redemption cut his own throat.  Doubtless, too, Bellamy had taken the new will with him; there was no chance of his being able to destroy it.