The old man paused, his head bent forward, his eyes alert and searching, both hands gripping the table. There was a long silence, in which the ticking of the clock upon the wall seemed unduly loud and in which the buzz of cross-cut saws came sounding through the evening air. Yet Tarboe did not reply.
"Have you nothing to say?" asked Grier at last. "Won't you do it--eh?"
"I'm studying the thing out," answered Tarboe quietly. "I don't quite see about these two wills. Why shouldn't the second will be found first?"
"Because you and I will be the only ones that'll know of it. That shows how much I trust you, Tarboe. I'll put it away where nobody can get it except you or me."
"But if anything should happen to me?"
"Well, I'd leave a letter with my bank, not to be opened for three years, or unless you died, and it would say that the will existed, where it was, and what its terms were."
"That sounds all right," but there was a cloud on Tarboe's face.
"It's a great business," said Grier, seeing Tarboe's doubt. "It's the biggest thing a man can do--and I'm breaking up."
The old man had said the right thing--"It's a great business!" It was the greatness of the thing that had absorbed Tarboe. It was the bigness made him feel life could be worth living, if the huge machinery were always in his fingers. Yet he had never expected it, and life was a problem. Who could tell? Perhaps--perhaps, the business would always be his in spite of the second will! Perhaps, he would have his chance to make good. He got to his feet; he held out his hand.
"I'll do it."
"Ain't it worth any thanks?"
"Not between us," declared Tarboe.
"When are you going to do it?"
"To-night--now." He drew out some paper and sat down with a pen in his hand.
"Now," John Grier repeated.