The Perils of Pauline | Page 9

his chair. But the old man was not unconscious yet. Feebly he repeated
to Pauline, "Wear this bracelet -- wear it always -- promise."
Pauline promised, and slipped it on her wrist without more than
glancing at it. The old man's eyes closed, and it was clear that this faint
was more serious than his others. Harry, about to telephone for Dr.
Stevens again, was greatly relieved to see the physician stride into the
room. There was hardly need of the stethoscope to tell him the end was
near.
Even before the old man was undressed and in bed, Dr. Stevens had
prepared and administered a hypodermic. The patient's eyelids fluttered
and Dr. Stevens listened to the faintly moving lips.
"The will," called the doctor, "what about the will?"
He glanced at every one, but nobody knew.

A shadow of anxiety passed over the features of the dying millionaire.
Dr. Stevens could see that something of serious importance was on the
old man's mind -- something of importance about his vast property.
Once more 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