nder you postponed the writing of your will
day by day, month by month, year in and year out! But you shall see, my
fine Michie White man--dead as you are, you shall see--you'll see if you
shan't!--she shall have the money, little or much! Unless there are heirs
she shall have every picayune of it!" Almost as quickly as it had flashed
up, the faint flicker of moral feeling died out; yet the resolution
remained. He was going to "beat" a dead white man.

IV.

PROXY.

Camille glided to the woman's side and laid a gentle yet commanding touch
upon her.

"Come, there is not a moment to lose."

"What do you want?" asked Attalie. She neither rose nor turned her head,
nor even let go the dead man's hand.

"I must make haste to fulfill the oft-repeated request of my friend here."

"_Your_ friend!" She still knelt, and held the hand, but turned her face,
full of pained resentment, upon the speaker behind her. He was calm.

"Our friend; yes, this man here. You did not know that I was his secret
confidential adviser? Well, that was all right; I told him to tell no one.
But now I must carry out his instructions. Madame Brouillard, this man
wished to leave you every cent he had in the world."

Attalie slowly laid her lips on the big cold hand lying in her two hot
ones and let the silent tears wet all three. Camille spoke on to her
averted form:

"He may never have told you so till to-day, but he has often told me. 'I
tell you, Camille,' he used to say, 'because I can trust you: I can't
trust a white man in a matter like this.' He told you? Yes; then you know
that I speak the truth. But one thing you did not know; that this
intention of his was the result of my earnest advice.--Stop! Madame
Brouillard--if you please--we have no time for amazement or questions now;
and less than none for expressions of gratitude. Listen to me. You know he
was always afraid he would die some day suddenly? Yes, of course;
everybody knew that. One night--our meetings were invariably at night--he
said to me, 'Camille, my dear friend, if I should go all of a sudden some
day before I write that will, _you know what to do_.' Those were his exact
words: 'Camille, my dear friend, _you know what to do_.'" All this was
said to the back of Attalie's head and neck; but now the speaker touched
her with one finger: "Madame, are your lodgers all up town?"

She nodded.

"Good. And you have but the one servant. Go tell her that our dear friend
has