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form he was using.
    The following morning at ten, Rutherford went uptown with his secretary and Mr. Baitsell to take the Colonel, as he now knew was the only way, by storm. While the other two waited in the hall, he followed the butler up the stairs and down the corridor to the study. Entering briskly, he placed a typed copy of the will on the desk before the astonished old gentleman.
    â€œI’ve been working all night, Colonel,” he said, in a voice so nervous that he didn’t quite recognize himself, “and I’ve decided that it doesn’t pay to be too much smarter than one’s client—particularly when that client happens to be Colonel Hubert. All of which means, sir, that you were right the first time. My scheme of including in the will all those bequests of objets d’art just isn’t feasible. We’ll accomplish the same thing in a letter. And in the meanwhile here’s your will as you originally wanted it. Clean as a whistle.”
    The Colonel watched him, nodding vaguely, and fingered the pages of the will. “You think it’s all right?”
    â€œRight as Tower, Tilney & Webb can make it,” Rutherford said, with the smile and wink that he had seen Clitus Tilney use.
    â€œAnd you think I should sign it now?”
    â€œNo time like the present.” Rutherford, who had been too nervous to sit, walked to the window, to conceal his heavy breathing. “If you’ll just ring for Tomkins and ask him to tell the young lady and gentleman in the hall to come up, we’ll have the necessary witnesses.”
    â€œIs Tomkins covered all right?” the Colonel asked as he touched the bell beside him.
    â€œHe’s covered with the other servants,” Rutherford said hastily. “In my opinion, sir, you’ve been more than generous.”
    The witnesses came up, and the Colonel behaved better than Rutherford had dared hope. He joked with Baitsell about the formalities, laughed at the red ribbon attached to the will, told a couple of anecdotes about old Newport and Harry Lehr’s will, and finally signed his name in a great, flourishing hand. When Rutherford’s secretary walked up to the table to sign her name after his, he rose and made her a courtly bow. It was all like a scene from Thackeray.
    In the taxi afterward, speeding downtown, Rutherford turned to the others. “The Colonel’s a bit funny about his private affairs,” he told them. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t even met his family. So I’d rather you didn’t mention this will business. Outside the office
or
in.”
    Baitsell looked very young and impressed as he gave him his solemn assurance. He then asked, “But if the Colonel should die, sir, who would notify us? And how would the family know about the will?”
    â€œNever mind about that,” Rutherford said, with a small smile, handing him the will. “I don’t think the Colonel is apt to do very much dying without my hearing of it. When we get to the office, you stick that will in the vault and forget it.”
    It was risky to warn them, of course, but riskier not to. He couldn’t afford to have them talk. There was too much that was phony in the whole picture. He had no guaranty, after all, that the Colonel had either the money or the power to will it. It was the kind of situation where one had to lie low, at least until the old man was dead, and even after that, until it was clear that one had the final and valid will. How would he look, for example, rushing into court to probate the document now under Baitsell’s arm if the family produced a later will, or even a judicial ruling that the old man was incompetent to make one? Would he not seem ridiculous and grabby? Or worse? And Clitus Tilney! What would
he
say if his firm was dragged into so humiliating a failure? But no, no, he wouldn’t even think of it. He could burn the will secretly, if necessary; nobody need