use, messuage, farm and all its
appurtenances to his adopted son Humphrey Bold, with an annuity of
fifty pounds per annum to his faithful housekeeper Rebecca
Pennyquick: I took down his instructions with his own hand, and
engrossed the will myself.

"There is some mistake, gentlemen, something inexplicable. I must
ask you, in all fairness, to postpone your judgment of the matter
until I have made search in my office. Never in my forty years'
experience has so untoward a thing happened, and I must beg of you
to give me time to solve the mystery."

"I will wait on you tomorrow, Mr. Attorney," says Sir Richard.
"Meanwhile I claim this property for my Lady Cludde."

And with that he takes his hat and stick and marches from the room.

The neighbors followed him, giving me commiserating glances, one or
two of them shaking me by the hand and speaking words of
condolence. Mr. Vetch remained for a time staring at the paper
before him; then he folded it and came to me.

"Some devilish prank," he said hurriedly. "Never fear, my lad; all
will come right. I will see you tomorrow, my boy."

And then he too went, leaving me alone with Mistress Pennyquick,
who had done nothing for some while but sob and rock herself to and
fro on her chair.

"That wicked man!" she moaned. "But he will be punished--he will be
punished, Humphrey. What does the good Book say about them that
despoil widows and orphans? Oh, my poor master!"

"What is it, Becky?" I asked, with but little curiosity for her
answer.

"'Tis the doing of that wicked man and his wife! I know it is," the
poor creature sobbed. "And they wouldn't come near the poor soul
when he was in his agony. And now they want to rob us--to rob you,
my poor boy, and me who served him faithful these twenty year. God
will punish him!"

"But what have they done, then?" I asked again.

"Done! Lord knows what they haven't done. I knew summat would
happen when I saw Mr. Vetch come to your poor father a while
ago--you mind, I told you so. Lawyers are all no good, that's my
belief. Don't tell me Mr. Vetch didn't know what he was a-carrying.
He's in league with the wretches, I know he is, for all his mazed
look. Don't tell me he didn't know the paper was as white as the
underside of a fleece. Fleece is the very word for it: he's fleeced
us, sure enough, and I'll come on the parish, and you'll be a
beggar, and they unnatural wretches will wallow in their pride,
and--oh! I can't abear it, I c