“He was influenced by none but his own conscience, sir.  You see, sir, three or four years before, he was very angry with his elder son, and cut him off without a shilling and gave everything to Mr. Hugh.  But it broke his heart to do it, for Mr. Harold was his favorite, as indeed he was everybody’s, though he never mentioned his name again until the night he made the will.  Well, sir, all that day we knew he was dying, and he knew it, and he was restless till late at night, when of a sudden he tells us to get his lawyer.  Mr. Hugh tried to put him off, and told us his mind was wandering; but ’twas no use; and the carriage was sent for Mr. Barton, and when word was brought back that he was out of town, it was sent again and brought back his clerk.  Everything was all ready, and he was propped up in bed by pillows, his eyes burning as though there was fire in them.  He repeated those words while the lawyer wrote them down, and then had them read to him, and at fifteen minutes of twelve o’clock the will was signed and sealed.”

“You were present during the drawing up of the will?”

“Yes, sir, I was present through it all, but not where the others saw me.  When the lawyer came, Mr. Hugh told me to leave the room; but as I was going his father called me back and bade me stay, and I was standing at the foot of the bed, hidden by the curtains of the canopy, so none but the old gentleman saw me.”

“Who else was present?”

“Mr. Mainwaring’s old friend, Sandy McPherson, Mr. Hugh, and the lawyer.”

“No one else?  Were there no physicians present?”

“There were physicians in the house, sir, but not in the room.”

“How long did Mr. Mainwaring live afterwards?”

“He died at five o’clock the next morning, sir; his strength went fast after that was done, but he rested easy and seemed satisfied.”

“What was done with the will?”

“Mr. Hobson took it away with him that night.”

“Have you ever seen it since?”

“No, sir.”

“Mr. Wilson,” said the attorney, showing the witness the will, “can you swear to these signatures as being the same which you saw affixed to the will upon that night?”

Wilson studied the document attentively for a moment.  “Yes, sir, that is Mr. Mainwaring’s writing, only a bit unsteady, for his hand trembled.  McPherson’s writing I know, and you mark that blot after his name?  I remember his fussing that night because he had blotted the paper.”

“And the third name, is that the signature of this man, Richard Hobson?”

“I know naught about that man’s writing,” the old fellow replied, with a shrewd look; “but you will mind that the name is the same writing as the will itself, and he wrote that and signed his name to it, for I saw him.”

“And you have neither seen that will, nor heard it read until this morning?”

“No, sir.”

“You have remembered it all these years?”