The Perils of Pauline | Page 9

he listened and then hastily drawing out his prescription pad and fountain pen he wrote a few sentences at the dying man's dictation, while the patient rallied and opened his eyes. The physician held the blank before his patient, who read it through and nodded. Dr. Stevens then placed the pen in the trembling fingers and guided his signature. A moment more and the physician had signed it as a witness and the butler had done the same.
The old manufacturer died as he had lived.
The will written on Dr. Stevens's prescription pad was given to Owen. He went to his room and examined it. It read:
"Bodley Stevens, M.D. Rx: I bequeath half my estate to my son, Harry, the remainder to my adopted daughter, Pauline, to be held in trust, until her marriage, by my secretary, Raymond Owen."
Then followed the signature of the deceased and that of the two witnesses. In vain Owen looked for the handsome bequest to "the faithful secretary." This was a bitter disappointment, and he considered for a moment the advisability of destroying the will. This would make valid one of the earlier wills in which he knew he had not been forgotten.
The folly of such a course became evident after a few moments thought. Dr. Stevens, the butler, and several others knew the contents of the document. It was so simple that its meaning could hardly be confused or forgotten, and every one knew it was in his keeping. It occurred to Owen that quite likely such a hasty death-bed will written by a doctor unskilled in law might not be accepted by the courts.
Early the next morning Owen suspended his work of answering telegrams of condolence long enough to make a hurried trip to lower Manhattan, where the late Stanford Marvin's lawyers had offices.
In vain the great lawyer cudgeled his brains for some flaw. The will ought to be wrong, but it wasn't. The meaning was so clear that even a court couldn't misunderstand it, and the fortune was left to his natural beneficiaries. The lawyer heaved a sigh and said plaintively:
"Too bad, too bad. Why didn't they call me?"
"Then this will is not valid?" asked Owen.
"Oh, no, it will hold; but what a pity that such a great man's last will and testament should be such an -- well, so -- well, this instrument is not worthy of conveying such a great estate."
He contemptuously slipped the simple document into an envelope and placed it in his safe. Owen picked up his hat, but hesitated at the door. A question was forming in his mind and with it a hope.
"Mr. Wilmerding," he asked finally, "in case Miss Marvin does not marry who would have charge of the estate?"
"I should say," replied the lawyer, "in reply to your question that the estate would be held in trust by you."
Returning to the house and entering the library Owen was confronted by the unwelcome spectacle of Montgomery Hicks, generally known as Mug. Hicks, with his gaudy attire, and ugly face, was always an affront to the eye, but to Owen he was a terror, for he held the power of blackmail over the secretary. Owen shrank at the sight of his enemy, but immediately took courage. Though Marvin's death had left the secretary no legacy it had also robbed the blackmailer of his power.
Hicks advanced with what he intended to be a winning smile and extended a hot, fat hand.
"I see the old man has croaked and I was just dropping in to talk business," Hicks's newsboy voice growled out.
"Hicks," said Owen, keeping his hand in his pocket, "if you came here to get your money out of the legacy old man Marvin was to leave me. Well, you won't get it and you never will get it. Marvin didn't leave me a cent, so there is nothing for you to get. He did leave me a job in his will, a job that will last for a year, and neither you nor any one else can force me out of that job. You can't blackmail me any more."
"At the end of the year what becomes of you?" asked Hicks.
"Then I get a position somewhere else; but that is none of your business."
"You don't want a position, Owen. A position calls for work. You don't like hard work any more then I do. You can't stand work much longer, either. Look at your eyes and your skin, how many grains do you take a day, anyway?"
"I haven't touched a grain of morphine in six months," lied Owen. "But get out of my way -- you can't get anything out of me and you can't blackmail me. If you come to this house again I'll have you thrown out."
"Just a minute," said Hicks, as pleasantly as he could,