Mr.Whitelaw had always been the most obstinate of men--and lying on his bed, maimed and helpless, was no more to be moved from his resolve than if he had been a Roman gladiator who had just trained himself for an encounter with lions.

So the bailiff was compelled to obey him, unwillingly enough, and dispatched one of the men to Malsham in quest of Mr.Pivott the attorney.
The practitioner came to the Grange as fast as his horse could carry him.
Every one in Malsham knew by this time that Stephen Whitelaw was a doomed man; and Mr.Pivott felt that this was a matter of life and death.
He was an eminently respectable man, plump and dapper, with a rosy smooth-shaven face, and an air of honesty that made the law seem quite a pleasant thing.

He was speedily seated by Mr.Whitelaw's bed, with a pair of candles and writing materials upon a little table before him, ready to obey his client's behests, and with the self-possessed aspect of a man to whom a last will and testament involving the disposal of a million or so would have been only an every-day piece of practice.
William Carley had shown himself very civil and obliging in providing for the lawyer's comfort, and having done so, now took up his stand by the fire-place, evidently intending to remain as a spectator of the business.
But an uneasy glance which the patient cast from time to time in the direction of his father-in-law convinced Mr.Pivott that he wanted that gentleman to be got rid of before business began.
"I think, Mr.Carley, it would be as well for our poor friend and I to be alone," he said in his most courteous accents.
"Fiddlesticks!" exclaimed the bailiff contemptuously.

"It isn't likely that Stephen can have any secrets from his wife's father.

I'm in nobody's way, I'm sure, and I'm not going to put my spoke in the wheel, let him leave his money how he may." "Very likely not, my dear sir.