a sheet
of paper apparently torn out of a notebook. "I asked that gentleman over
there"--he jerked his thumb over his shoulder--"to be my first witness,
and he kindly consented. I'd be much obliged if you'd sign your name
just here. I'll also ask you to take charge of it--only a small
envelope, as you see. It's addressed to my mother. I've made her
executor and residuary legatee."

Coxeter felt a strong impulse to refuse. He never mixed himself up with
other people's affairs; he always refused to do so on principle.

The man standing opposite to him divined what was passing through his
mind, and broke in, "Only just while we're on this boat. You can tear it
up and chuck the pieces away once we're on land again--" he spoke
nervously, and with contemptuous amazement Coxeter told himself that the
fellow was _afraid_. "Surely you don't think there's any danger?" he
asked. "D'you mean you've made this will because you think something may
happen to the boat?"

The other nodded, "Accidents do happen"; he smiled rather foolishly as
he said the words, pronouncing the last one, as Coxeter noted with
disapproval, "habben." He was holding out a fountain pen; he had an
ingratiating manner, and Coxeter, to his own surprise, suddenly gave
way.

"All right," he said, and taking the paper in his hand he glanced over
it. He had no desire to pry into any man's private affairs, but he
wasn't going to sign anything without first reading it.

This odd little will consisted of only two sentences, written in a
clear, clerkly hand. The first bequeathed an annuity of L240 (six
thousand francs) to Leonie Lenoir, of Rue Lafayette, Paris; the second
appointed the testator's mother, Mrs. Solomon Munich, of Scott Terrace,
Maida Vale, residuary legatee and executor. The will was signed "Victor
Munich."

"Very well, I'll sign it," said Coxeter, at last, "and I'll take charge
of it till we're on land. But look here--I won't keep it a moment
longer!" Then, perhaps a little ashamed of his ungraciousness, "I say,
Mr. Munich, if I were you I'd go below and take a stiffish glass of
brandy and water. I once had a fright, I was nearly run over by a
brewer's dray at Charing Cross, and I did that--took some brandy I
mean--" he jerked the words out, conscious that the other's sallow face
had reddened.

Then he signed his name at the bottom of the sheet of paper, and busied
himself with putting the envelope carefully into his pocketbook.
"There," he said