“Did, did he?  Now that’s fine—­that’s very fine.  I like that.  When is it to be?”

“Now!  Straight off!  Tonight!  An admirable fellow—­admirable!”

“Admirable?  He’s a darling!  Why, it’s an honor as well as a pleasure to stand up before such a man.  Come—­off with you!  Go and arrange everything—­and give him my heartiest compliments.  A rare fellow, indeed; an admirable fellow, as you have said!”

“I’ll have him in the vacant stretch between Wilson’s and the haunted house within the hour, and I’ll bring my own pistols.”

Judge Driscoll began to walk the floor in a state of pleased excitement; but presently he stopped, and began to think—­began to think of Tom.  Twice he moved toward the secretary, and twice he turned away again; but finally he said: 

“This may be my last night in the world—­I must not take the chance.  He is worthless and unworthy, but it is largely my fault.  He was entrusted to me by my brother on his dying bed, and I have indulged him to his hurt, instead of training him up severely, and making a man of him, I have violated my trust, and I must not add the sin of desertion to that.  I have forgiven him once already, and would subject him to a long and hard trial before forgiving him again, if I could live; but I must not run that risk.  No, I must restore the will.  But if I survive the duel, I will hide it away, and he will not know, and I will not tell him until he reforms, and I see that his reformation is going to be permanent.”

He redrew the will, and his ostensible nephew was heir to a fortune again.  As he was finishing his task, Tom, wearied with another brooding tramp, entered the house and went tiptoeing past the sitting room door.  He glanced in, and hurried on, for the sight of his uncle was nothing but terrors for him tonight.  But his uncle was writing!  That was unusual at this late hour.  What could he be writing?  A chill of anxiety settled down upon Tom’s heart.  Did that writing concern him?  He was afraid so.  He reflected that when ill luck begins, it does not come in sprinkles, but in showers.  He said he would get a glimpse of that document or know the reason why.  He heard someone coming, and stepped out of sight and hearing.  It was Pembroke Howard.  What could be hatching?

Howard said, with great satisfaction: 

“Everything’s right and ready.  He’s gone to the battleground with his second and the surgeon—­also with his brother.  I’ve arranged it all with Wilson—­Wilson’s his second.  We are to have three shots apiece.”

“Good!  How is the moon?”

“Bright as day, nearly.  Perfect, for the distance—­fifteen yards.  No wind—­not a breath; hot and still.”

“All good; all first-rate.  Here, Pembroke, read this, and witness it.”

Pembroke read and witnessed the will, then gave the old man’s hand a hearty shake and said: 

“Now that’s right, York—­but I knew you would do it.  You couldn’t leave that poor chap to fight along without means or profession, with certain defeat before him, and I knew you wouldn’t, for his father’s sake if not for his own.”