“I thought it was a miracle,” he said very quietly, after I’d finished.  Then, after a pause:  “Yes, and so it was a miracle, and this is a miracle, too!”

Then he had his say.

“I would sooner have had this happen than anything in the world,” he declared.  “First, the mystery has been cleared up for me, and, secondly, the mystery can be cleared up for you.  You did me the best turn that living man could have done for me—­you put me right with myself.  You’ll stare at that, but it’s true.  I had done a crooked thing that night; but I did a straight one the next morning, for I was strong again by that time.  The lawyer came then, and I showed him the codicil, which had come into my hands quite by chance the day before when I was searching for another paper.  But he only laughed at it.  My late uncle was a man of strong temper, a gusty, fiery man of moods and whims.  His passions were like storms—­he would forget them when they had swept over him.  More than once in his life had he committed the gravest actions in a rage and entirely forgotten them afterwards, until he was reminded, by unpleasant results, of the things that he had done.  ‘Your uncle,’ said the lawyer to me, ’well understood his own peculiarities, and was aware, long before his end came, that there existed evidences of his past ungovernable temper in the shape of unjust additions to his will and hasty alterations now regretted.  Six months ago, when you were abroad, I visited him and made a will for him that revoked and annulled all that preceded it.  You are the heir and the only heir.’  So it appeared.  And now I must ask you to see the proofs of what I tell you, for I shall not be at peace until you have done so.  They are with my lawyers, and if you come to see me a week hence, they shall be here for you to read.”

The young man was fussy, you see, and very tender about his honour, and didn’t think I’d believe him.  But, of course, I did.

“A week hence I shall be in klink, Squire,” I said, and moved my handcuffs, just to remind him of the state of things.  And then he had the head-keeper in and set me free.  ’Twas a case of one good turn deserving another, no doubt; and though the young man never forgave himself for his one slip, he forgave me for my many, and a month from that day I went as third keeper to Woodcotes.  And I never regretted it, I do assure you, nor more didn’t he.  I’m head-keeper now, and growing terrible old, and he’s been dead these many years, but I’m hopeful and wishful to meet him again afore long, for he was a sportsman and more than a good master to me.