Dr. Crawford put on his hat, and went out with his friend.

“Now, Paul,” said Ashcroft, when they were some rods distant from the house, “is there a lawyer in Edgewood?”

“Certainly, and a good one.”

“Did he indite¹ your will?”

“No; Mrs. Crawford wrote it out. She was at one time copyist for a lawyer.”

“Take my advice and have another drawn² up to-day without mentioning the matter to her. She admits having mislaid the one made yesterday.”

“It may be a good idea.”

“Certainly, it is a prudent³ precaution. Then you will be sure that all is safe. I have, myself, executed a duplicate will. One I keep, the other I have deposited with my lawyer.”

Ashcroft was a man of energy. He saw that Dr. Crawford, who was of a weak, vacillating temper, executed the will. He and another witnessed it, and the document was left with the lawyer.

“You think I had better not mention the matter to Mrs. Crawford?” he said.

“By no means—she might think it was a reflection upon her for carelessly mislaying the first.”

“True,” and the doctor, who was fond of peace, consented to his friend’s plan.

“By the way,” asked Ashcroft, “who was your wife what was her name, I mean—before her second marriage?”

“She was a Mrs. Cook.”

“Oh, I see,” said Ashcroft, and his face lighted up with surprise and intelligence.

“What do you see?” inquired Dr. Crawford. “I thought your wife’s face was familiar. I met her once when she was Mrs. Cook.”

“You knew her, then?”

“No, I never exchanged a word with her till I met her under this roof.

“How can I tell him that I first saw her when a visitor to the penitentiary⁴ among the female prisoners?” Ashcroft asked himself. “My poor friend would sink with mortification⁵.”

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