CHAPTER I

EXIT MR. STANLEY G. FULTON

There was a thoughtful frown on the face of the man who was the
possessor of twenty million dollars. He was a tall, spare man, with a
fringe of reddish-brown hair encircling a bald spot. His blue eyes,
fixed just now in a steady gaze upon a row of ponderous law books
across the room, were friendly and benevolent in direct contradiction
to the bulldog, never-let-go fighting qualities of the square jaw
below the firm, rather thin lips.

The lawyer, a youthfully alert man of sixty years, trimly gray as to
garb, hair, and mustache, sat idly watching him, yet with eyes that
looked so intently that they seemed to listen.

For fully five minutes the two men had been pulling at their cigars in
silence when the millionaire spoke.

"Ned, what am I going to do with my money?"

Into the lawyer's listening eyes flashed, for a moment, the keenly
scrutinizing glance usually reserved for the witness on the other
side. Then quietly came the answer.

"Spend it yourself, I hope--for some years to come, Stanley."

Mr. Stanley G. Fulton was guilty of a shrug and an uplifted eyebrow.

"Thanks. Very pretty, and I appreciate it, of course. But I can't wear
but one suit of clothes at a time, nor eat but one dinner--which, by
the way, just now consists of somebody's health biscuit and hot water.
Twenty millions don't really what you might call melt away at that
rate."

The lawyer frowned.

"Shucks, Fulton!" he expostulated, with an irritable twist of his
hand. "I thought better of you than that. This poor rich man's 'one-
suit, one-dinner, one-bed-at-a-time' hard-luck story doesn't suit your
style. Better cut it out!"

"All right. Cut it is." The man smiled good-humoredly. "But you see I
was nettled. You didn't get me at all. I asked you what was to become
of my money after I'd done spending it myself--the little that is
left, of course."

Once more from the lawyer's eyes flashed that keenly scrutinizing
glance.

"What was it, Fulton? A midnight rabbit, or a wedge of mince pie NOT
like mother used to make? Why, man alive, you're barely over fifty,
yet. Cheer up! It's only a little matter of indigestion. There are a
lot of good days and good dinners coming to you, yet."

The millionaire made a wry face.

"Very likely--if I survive the biscuits. But, seriously, Ned, I'm in
earnest. No, I don't think I'm going to die--yet awhile. But I ran
across young Bixby last night--got him home, in fact. Delivered him to
his white-faced little wife. Talk about your maudlin idiots!"

"Yes, I know. Too bad, too bad!"

"Hm-m; well, that's what one million did--inherited. It set me to
thinking--of mine, when I get through with them."

"I see." The lawyer's lips came together a little grimly. "You've not
made your will, I believe."

"No. Dreaded it, somehow. Funny how a man'll fight shy of a little
thing like that, isn't it? And when we're so mighty particular where
it goes while we're living!"

"Yes, I know; you're not the only one. You have relatives--somewhere,
I surmise."

"Nothing nearer than cousins, third or fourth, back East. They'd get
it, I suppose--without a will."

"Why don't you marry?"

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