“Your house?”

“Precisely, sir,” replied Mr. Quillet.  “This mansion, together with all other property, real and personal, of which the deceased Henry Harlowe died possessed, is bequeathed by will—­dated about a month since—­to this lady, Giulletta Corelli.”

“A will!” exclaimed Mr. Ferret with an explosive shout, and turning to me, whilst his sharp gray eyes danced with irrepressible mirth—­“Did I not tell you so?”

“Your usual sagacity, Mr. Ferret, has not in this instance failed you.  Perhaps you will permit me to read the will?  But before I do so,” continued Mr. Quillet, as he drew his gold-rimmed spectacles from their morocco sheath—­“you will allow me, if you please, to state that the legatee, delicately appreciating the position of the widow, will allow her any reasonable annuity—­say five hundred pounds per annum for life.”

“Will she really though?” cried Mr. Ferret, boiling over with ecstacy.  “Madam, let me beg of you to confirm this gracious promise.”

“Certainly I do.”

“Capital!—­glorious!” rejoined Ferret; and I thought he was about to perform a salutatory movement, that must have brought his cranium into damaging contact with the chandelier under which he was standing.  “Is it not delightful?  How every one—­especially an attorney—­loves a generous giver!”

Mr. Richards appeared to be rendered somewhat uneasy by these strange demonstrations.  He knew Ferret well, and evidently suspected that something was wrong somewhere.  “Perhaps, Mr. Quillet,” said he, “you had better read the will at once.”

This was done:  the instrument devised in legal and minute form all the property, real and personal, to Giulletta Corelli—­a natural-born subject of his majesty, it appeared, though of foreign parentage, and of partially foreign education.

“Allow me to say,” broke in Mr. Ferret, interrupting me as I was about to speak—­“allow me to say, Mr. Richards, that that will does you credit:  it is, I should say, a first-rate affair, for a country practitioner especially.  But of course you submitted the draught to counsel?”

“Certainly I did,” said Richards tartly.

“No doubt—­no doubt.  Clearness and precision like that could only have proceeded from a master’s hand.  I shall take a copy of that will, Richards, for future guidance, you may depend, the instant it is registered in Doctors’ Commons.”

“Come, come, Mr. Ferret,” said I; “this jesting is all very well; but it is quite time the farce should end.”

“Farce!” exclaimed Mr. Richards.

“Farce!” growled doubtful Mr. Quillet.

“Farce!” murmured the beautiful Giulletta.

“Farce!” cried Mr. Ferret.  “My dear sir, it is about one of the most charming and genteel comedies ever enacted on any stage, and the principal part, too, by one of the most charming of prima donnas.  Allow me, sir—­don’t interrupt me! it is too delicious to be shared; it is, indeed.  Mr. Richards, and you, Mr. Quillet, will you permit me to observe that this admirable will has one slight defect?”