"Yes, you're out on bail, and in another second or two you will be entirely free."
"I'm glad you're going to take that thing off again," said Mortmain. "How could you have done it?"
"It's all right," returned Crisp soothingly.
Then Mortmain suddenly understood. But he waited shrewdly.
"What day is this?" he asked in an innocent manner.
"December 5th," replied Jermyn.
"When did I have that fall; you know—the one that made it necessary for you to amputate?"
"Your accident happened yesterday evening, but there is no necessity for amputation," returned Crisp. "Now, my dear fellow, just lie back, will you?—and don't ask questions. That somni-chloride is still lingering in your head. I shall have to be going in a minute."
Mortmain obeyed the surgeon's instructions, but he was hard at work thinking the thing out logically. It was clear that there had been no amputation, no arrest, no inspectors from Scotland Yard. That scene with Flaggs, horribly distinct as it still was, had had no actuality. But where did fact end and illusion begin? Had the notes been taken? Had there been a murder? Was he a bankrupt? The different propositions entangled themselves helplessly with one another. At the end of a minute he asked deliberately:
"Miss Fickles, did a man take some papers from my table this morning?"
"Yes, Sir Richard," replied the nurse.
Mortmain's heart sank.
"Er—was—did anything happen to Lord Russell?" he asked the surgeon faintly.
"Yes. But don't talk or think of it, Mortmain. I order you! Do you understand?"
A ripple of perspiration broke out on his forehead and it seemed as if a film had rolled off his vision. Of course, he had taken the chloride just after Miss Fickles had gone downstairs for him, and then Crisp and Jermyn had come. He had felt so miserable! And now he felt so much better! He opened his eyes, the same Sir Richard that had inhaled the anæsthetic so obediently.
"I am quite myself now, Sir Penniston," he asserted quietly. "I want to ask one more question. Flynt was not here, was he?"
"No, of course not."
"And we have not left the room? No railroad trip, eh?"
"No."
"Thank you," said the baronet. "May I have a cup of coffee?"
What reply this preposterous demand would have invited will never be known, for at that moment a knock came upon the door and Joyce asked if Sir Richard could see Mr. Flynt.
"I must see him!" said Mortmain.
"Oh, very well!" laughed Crisp. "You're getting better rapidly."
Flynt entered with a breezy manner which he allowed himself to assume only when something really desirable had definitely occurred.
"Good morning, Sir Penniston! Good morning, Sir Richard!" he remarked without sitting down. "I really had to come in and tell you the good news. The executors have just read Lord Russell's will——"
"Mr. Flynt! Mr. Flynt!" interrupted Sir Penniston.
"Oh, it's all right!" continued Flynt with a laugh. "Better than a tonic. You see, Fowler, the only next of kin, was just sailing for New Guinea, and it had to be done at once. I really did Lord Russell an injustice. May I speak before these gentlemen?"
"Certainly," whispered Mortmain, his eyes fastened feverishly upon the lawyer.
"Well, to put it briefly, he has made you a great gift! Here, read it!" and he handed the baronet a typewritten sheet. Mortmain read it eagerly, although his eyes pained him somewhat:
"To my friend, Sir Richard Mortmain, I devise and bequeath the sum of five thousand pounds, and take it upon myself to express the earnest hope that he will before long publish his views upon art in such a form that the public at large may have the opportunity to profit by that which hitherto has been the privilege only of the few. I desire, moreover, to express my high personal regard for him and my admiration for his whole-souled devotion to the arts, and I hereby instruct my executors to cancel and destroy all evidences of indebtedness owing to me by said Mortmain and to treat said indebtedness as null, void and of no effect, provided, nevertheless, that within six months of my demise said Mortmain shall assign to the directors of the Corporation of the British Museum all his collections of ceramics, bronzes, china, chronometers, scarabs, including the Howard Collection, his cabinets of gems and cameos, including the famous head of Alexander on an onyx of two strata and the altissimo relievo on cornelian—Jupiter Ægiochus—the four paintings by Watteau in his music room, and the paintings by Corot and Whistler from his library. As the said moneys borrowed from me from time to time by said Mortmain were, to my knowledge, principally made use of by him for the purpose of purchasing and enlarging said collections, which have increased in value to no inconsiderable extent by virtue of his care and discrimination since he acquired them, I am prepared to regard said loans to him in effect as gifts impressed with a trust in favor of our National Museum, provided, however, that said Mortmain is willing to accept the same and execute the terms thereof as heretofore set forth within six months; but nothing herein shall be taken to affect the right of said Mortmain to take up and pay off said indebtedness within said time, if he shall see fit to do so, in which case the provisions of this codicil shall be without any force or effect whatsoever, save that I instruct my executors to receive said moneys and hold the same in trust, however, for such scientific and artistic uses as said Mortmain shall direct, preference being given to the needs of the British Museum along the lines of antique works of art and Egyptology."
As Sir Richard laid down the paper his eyes filled and he turned away his head.
"A good old man!" said Flynt reverently.
"Indeed he was!" assented Crisp.
"I must know one thing," whispered Mortmain after a few moments. "Did you send your clerk here this morning to get some papers?"
"Yes, to be sure. I had almost forgotten—I sent Flaggs after an envelope which I fancied I dropped last evening," answered the lawyer.
"Which you had dropped?" asked Mortmain stupidly.
"Why, certainly. I had the papers connected with Lord Russell's loans sent here. Flaggs brought 'em—and I dropped an envelope. I did drop it, because Flaggs found it here this morning."
"What was in it?" asked Sir Richard eagerly.
Flynt elevated his brows.
"Why, if you don't mind my speaking of it, there were some old notes of yours which had been renewed at various times. I make a practice of keeping the originals as a matter of precaution."
"Oh!" sighed Mortmain. "Old notes?"
"Old notes," answered Flynt. "Notes taken up and renewed by others."
"Ah!" sighed Mortmain again. "You did drop them, but not in the study. I found them on the street. They gave me quite a turn."
"Well, we will tear them up
