"I do!" replied Parslewe, drily. "But these two don't."
Sir Charles turned to us. I think he found some relief for his astonished feelings in having somebody to announce something to.
"This—this is a will!" he said, in almost awestruck accents. "The will of my late client, Mr. Matthew Palkeney! Made by himself on a single sheet of notepaper! But in strict order, duly executed and attested. I know the witnesses———"
"So do I," observed Parslewe, with a laugh. "Talked to both of 'em this morning on the way here."
"And—and, in short, it is what it is!" continued Sir Charles. "Nothing can upset it! And in it, in as few words as ever he could use, Mr. Matthew Palkeney leaves everything of which he dies possessed to—Mr. Parslewe! Wonderful!"
Parslewe thrust his hands in his pockets.
"I don't see anything very wonderful about it," he remarked, coldly. "We were of the same blood! The old man evidently wanted to—and he did. But he never consulted me, you know, Sperrigoe."
