I ran all the way to the station
house and back--a mile or more--and brought the paper and a pen and
ink, besides. It was but a telegraph blank--all I could find. Naught
but a telegraph blank, lad."

Again his voice trailed away into a mumbling whisper, but now Uncle
John and Donald looked into one another's eyes with sudden interest.

"He mustn't die yet!" said the little man; and the coachman leaned
over the wounded form and said, distinctly:

"Yes, lad; I'm listening."

"To be sure," said James, brightening a bit. "So I held the paper for
him, and the brakeman supported Master Tom's poor body, and he wrote
out the will as clear as may be."

"The will!"

"Sure enough; Master Tom's last will. Isn't my name on it, too, where
I signed it? And the conductor's beside it, for the poor brakeman
didn't dare let him go? Of course. Who should sign the will with
Master Tom but me--his old servant and friend? Am I right, Donald?"

"Yes, lad."

"'Now,' says Master Tom, 'take it to Lawyer Watson, James, and bid him
care for it. And give my love to Jane--that's the name, Donald; the
one I thought I'd forgot--'and now lay me back and let me die.' His
very words, Donald. And we laid him back and he died. And he died.
Poor Master Tom. Poor, poor young Master. And him to--be married--in
a--"

"The paper, James!" cried Uncle John, recalling the dying man to the
present. "What became of it?"

"Sir, I do not know you," answered James, suspiciously. "The paper's
for Lawyer Watson. It's he alone shall have it."

"Here I am, James," cried the lawyer, thrusting the others aside and
advancing to the bed. "Give me the paper. Where is it? I am Lawyer
Watson!"

The gardener laughed--a horrible, croaking laugh that ended with a
gasp of pain.

"_You_ Lawyer Watson?" he cried, a moment later, in taunting tones.
"Why, you old fool, Si Watson's as young as Master Tom--as young as I
am! You--_you_ Lawyer Watson! Ha, ha, ha!"

"Where is the paper?" demanded the lawyer fiercely.

James stared at him an instant, and then suddenly collapsed and fell
back inert upon the bed.

"Have you heard all?" asked John Merrick, laying his hand on the
lawyer's shoulder.

"Yes; I followed you here as soon as I could. Tom Bradley made another
will, as he lay dying. I must have it, Mr. Merrick."

"Then you must find it yourself," said Donald gravely, "for James is
dead."

The doctor, arriving a few minutes later, verified the statement.
It was