“Ah!” he said with an assumption of candor.  “In that case I should know positively that they were in fact my father’s wishes.”

“Exactly!” replied Mr. Tutt.  “And you’d carry them out without a moment’s hesitation.”

“Of course!” yielded Payson.

“Then the whole question is whether or not this paper does express a wish of his.  That problem is a real problem, and it is for you alone to solve,—­and, of course, you’re under the disadvantage of having a financial interest in the result, which makes it doubly hard.”

“All the same,” maintained the boy, “I want to be fair to myself.”

“—­And to him,” added Mr. Tutt solemnly.  “The fact that this wish is not expressed in such a way as to be legally obligatory makes it all the more binding.  In a way, I suppose, that is your hard luck.  You might, perhaps, fight a provision in the will.  You can’t fight this—­or disregard it, either.”

“I don’t exactly see why this is any more binding than a provision in the will itself!” protested Payson.

Mr. Tutt threw his stogy into the fire and fumbled for another in the long box on the library table.

“Maybe it isn’t,” he conceded, “but I’ve always liked that specious anecdote attributed to Sheridan who paid his gambling debts and let his tailor wait.  You remember it, of course?  When the tailor demanded the reason for this Sheridan told him that a gambling debt was a debt of honor and a tailor’s bill was not, since his fortunate adversary at the card table had only his promise to pay, whereas the tailor possessed an action for an account which he could prosecute in the courts.

“‘In that case!’ declared the tailor, ‘I’ll tear up my bill!’ which he did, and Sheridan thereupon promptly paid him.  Have another nip of brandy?”

“No, thank you!” answered Payson.  “It’s getting late and I must be going.  I’ve—­I’ve had a perfectly—­er—­ripping time!”

“You must come again soon!” said Mr. Tutt warmly, from the top of the steps outside.

As Payson reached the sidewalk he looked back somewhat shamefacedly and said: 

“Do you think it makes any difference what sort of a person this Sadie Burch is?”

In the yellow light of the street lamp it seemed to the collegian as if the face of the old man bore for an instant a fleeting resemblance to that of his father.

“Not one particle!” he answered.  “Good night, my boy!”

But Payson Clifford did not have a good night by any manner of means.  Instead of returning to his hotel he wandered aimless and miserable along the river front.  He no longer had any doubt as to his duty.  Mr. Tutt had demolished Tutt in a breath,—­and put the whole proposition clearly.  Tutt had given, as it were, and Mr. Tutt had taken away.  However, he told himself, that wasn’t all there was to it; the money was his in law and no one could deprive him of it.  Why not sit tight and let Mr. Tutt