The Three Fates. F. Marion Crawford

open in the street below, and close again a few seconds later. One of the physicians glanced at the patient, saw the usual look of inquiry in his face and quickly left the room. When he returned he held a card in his hand, which he took to the bedside after looking at it by the fireside. Bending down, he spoke in a low tone.

      “Mr. George Winton Wood has called,” he said.

      Tom Craik’s sunken eyes opened suddenly and fixed themselves on the speaker’s face.

      “Any message?” he asked very feebly.

      “He said he had only just heard of your illness, and was very sorry—would call again.”

      A strange look of satisfaction came into the old man’s colourless face, and a low sigh escaped his lips as he closed his eyes again.

      “Would you like to see him?” inquired the doctor.

      The patient shook his head without raising his lids, and the room was still once more. Presently the other physician departed and the one who was left installed himself in a comfortable chair from which he could see the bed and the door. During half an hour no sound was heard save the muffled roar of the wood fire. At last the sick man stirred again.

      “Doctor—come here,” he said in a harsh whisper.

      “What is it, Mr. Craik?”

      “Send for Trimm at once.”

      “Mrs. Trimm, did you say?”

      “No—Sherry Trimm himself—make my will—see? Quick.”

      The physician stared at his patient for a moment in very considerable surprise, for he thought he had reason to suppose that Thomas Craik’s will had been made already, and now he half suspected that the old man’s mind was wandering. He hesitated.

      “You think I’m not able, do you?” asked Craik, his rough whisper rising to a growl. “Well, I am. I’m not dead yet, so get him quickly.”

      The doctor left the room without further delay, to give the necessary orders. When he returned, Mr. Craik was lying with his eyes wide open, staring at the fire.

      “Give me something, can’t you?” he said with more energy than he had shown that day.

      The doctor began to think that it was not yet all up with his patient, as he mixed something in a glass and gave it to him. Craik drank eagerly and moved his stiffened lips afterwards as though he had enjoyed the taste of the drink.

      “I may not jockey the undertaker,” he grumbled, “but I shall last till morning, anyhow.”

      Nearly half an hour elapsed before Sherrington Trimm reached the house, but during all that time Thomas Craik did not close his eyes again. His face looked less waxen, too, and his sight seemed to have recovered some of the light that had been fading out of it by degrees all day. The doctor watched him with interest, wondering, as doctors must often wonder, what was passing in his brain, what last, unspent remnant of life’s passions had caused so sudden a revival of his energy, and whether this manifestation of strength were the last flare of the dying lamp, or whether Tom Craik, to use his own words, would jockey the undertaker, as he had jockeyed many another adversary in his stirring existence.

      The door opened, and Sherrington Trimm entered the room. He was a short, active man, slightly inclined to be stout, bald and very full about the chin and neck, with sharp, movable blue eyes, and a closely-cut, grizzled moustache. His hands were plump, white and pointed, his feet were diminutive and his dress was irreproachable. He had a habit of turning his head quickly to the right and left when he spoke, as though challenging contradiction. He came briskly to the bedside and took one of Craik’s wasted hands in his, with a look of honest sympathy.

      “How are you, Tom?” he inquired, suppressing his cheerful voice to a sort of subdued chirp.

      “According to him,” growled Craik, glancing at the doctor, “I believe I died this afternoon. However, I want to make my will, so get out your tools, Sherry, and set to. Please leave us alone,” he added, looking up at the physician.

      The latter went out, taking the attendant with him.

      “Your will!” exclaimed Sherry Trimm, when the door had closed behind the two. “I thought——”

      “Bad habit, thinking things. Don’t. Put that drink where I can reach it—so. There’s paper on the table. Sit down.”

      Trimm saw that he had better not argue the matter, and he did as he was bidden. He was indeed very much surprised at the sudden turn of affairs, for he was perfectly well aware that Tom Craik had made a will some years previously in which he left his whole fortune to his only sister, Trimm’s wife. The lawyer wondered what his brother-in-law intended to do now, and as the only means of ascertaining the truth seemed to be to obey his orders, he lost no time in preparing to receive the dictation.

      “This the last will and testament of me, Thomas Craik,” said the sick man, sharply. “Got that? Go on. I do hereby revoke and annul all former wills made by me. That’s correct isn’t it? No, I’m not wandering—not a bit. Very important that clause—very. Go ahead about the just debts and funeral expenses. I needn’t dictate that.”

      Trimm wrote rapidly on, nervously anxious to get to the point.

      “Got that? Well. I bequeath all my worldly possessions, real and personal estate of all kinds—go on with the stock phrases—include house and furniture, trinkets and everything.”

      Trimm’s hand moved quickly along the ruled lines of the foolscap.

      “To whom?” he asked almost breathlessly, as he reached the end of the formal phrase.

      “To George Winton Wood,” said Craik with an odd snap of the lips. “His name’s on that card, Sherry, beside you, if you don’t know how to spell it. Go on. Son of Jonah Wood of New York, and of Fanny Winton deceased, also of New York. No mistake about the identity, eh? Got it down? To have and to hold—and all the rest of it. Let’s get to the signature—look sharp! Get in the witness clause right—that’s the most important—don’t forget to say, in our presence and in the presence of each other—there’s where the hitch comes in about proving wills. All right. Ring for the doctor and we’ll have the witnesses right away. Make the date clear.”

      Sherrington Trimm had not recovered from his surprise, as he pressed the silver button of the bell. The physician entered immediately.

      “Can you be the other witness yourself, Sherry? Rather not? Doctor, just send for Stubbs, will you please? He’ll do, won’t he?”

      Trimm nodded, while he and the physician set a small invalid’s table upon the sick man’s knees, and spread upon it the will, of which the ink was not yet dry. Trimm dipped the pen in the ink and handed it to Mr. Craik.

      “Let me drink first,” said the latter. He swallowed the small draught eagerly, and then looked about him.

      “Will you sign?” asked Trimm nervously.

      “Is Stubbs here? Wait for him. Here, Stubbs—you see—this is my will. I’m going to sign it, and you’re a witness.”

      “Yes, sir,” said the butler, gravely. He moved forward cautiously so that he could see the document and recognise it if he should ever be called upon to do so.

      The sick man steadied himself while the doctor thrust his arm behind the pillows to give him more support. Then he set the pen to the paper and traced his name in large, clear characters. He did not take his eyes from the paper until the doctor and the servant had signed as witnesses. Then his head fell back on the pillows.

      “Take that thing away, Sherry, and keep it,” he said, feebly, for the strength had gone out of him all at once. “You may want it to-morrow—or you may not.”

      Mechanically he laid his fingers on his own pulse, and then lay quite still. Sherrington Trimm looked at the doctor with an expression of inquiry, but the latter only shrugged his shoulders and turned away. After such