I could, of course, revoke this thing if I do." Deringham said nothing.

There was a good deal he wished to say, but for once words failed him, and when he went out with the will in his pocket his face had grown a trifle grey.

Yet though he suffered grievously in that moment, he was conscious of something in his brain that throbbed in time to the refrain, "Alice Deringham, mistress of Carnaby.".