Carter kept a tender vigil by LeBeau's side; he knew that for Newkirk to leave him like this, his thirst for revenge was overpowering. All Carter could do was pray that LeBeau woke up soon, and that Newkirk wouldn't end up getting into trouble as he confronted his doppelganger.

The drug had meant to keep LeBeau unconscious for several hours, but Gretel, who had administered the drug to the Frenchman, had been unaware that Sandiego had watered it down before giving her the bottle. The Spanish lady had her own gambit planned—one that would require LeBeau to awaken much sooner than Gretel had intended.

And, thusly, only half an hour had passed since Newkirk's departure from the house before the older corporal suddenly groaned, beginning to stir.

"Louis?" Carter asked, relief washing over him.

"Oh… Le théâtre," he mumbled.

"The theatre?" Carter repeated. "Yeah, Newkirk figured it out and left some time ago. He didn't even have enough time to be upset about you and your will…" He trailed off, his eyes widening as he realized that he had let slip what LeBeau had wanted to keep secret!

Fortunately for him, LeBeau was still coming out of it, and didn't catch a word of what Carter had said.

"Quoi?" he asked, opening his eyes. "André! André, we must find Pierre! He and his sister are in great danger!"

He tried to sit up, but Carter forced him back down.

"Take it easy," he instructed. "You were drugged. And boy, we were scared!"

"But you are the only one here," LeBeau said, looking around. "Where is Pierre? Please tell me he isn't far!"

"He was here until some time ago. Something happened to you while you were here; we found you unconscious and in that sword impalement box. We thought you were dead, and Peter… He was mad, at first, but then he just sat there, devastated. You know, he really does think of you as his best friend. He was so out of it, he barely reacted when I told him about…" Carter trailed off. He knew that LeBeau would eventually learn about how he had let it slip about the will. He may as well know now, when he would be too tired from the drug to throttle the American. "He wasn't as upset as we thought he'd be when I told him about how you wrote him into your will."

LeBeau heard him this time, and his bleary eyes glared dangerously at the sergeant.

"You told him!" the Frenchman quietly fumed, still not able to shout yet. "After everything I told you—"

"I told you, we both thought you were dead!" Carter protested. "If you really had been dead, he would've found out eventually… I just thought I could deliver the news to him and bring him down easy."

LeBeau looked away, muttering. Well, there was nothing he could do about it now. The most important thing was making sure that Newkirk wouldn't fall into the trap set for him.

"Where is Pierre now?"

"I told you—he headed for the theatre a half an hour ago."

"Oh, no…" LeBeau murmured, shutting his eyes.

"Why? What's wrong?"

The Frenchman kept his eyes shut, trying to recall the blur of details surrounding the minutes just before he had fallen unconscious. He remembered Newkirk's double trying to choke him, and taunting him in the process. LeBeau had let himself go limp in the hopes that he would stop, and his ploy had worked; the double dropped him as the women began to talk.

It had been lucky that Gretel did not know Spanish and Sandiego did not know German; they both discussed their plans in English, and LeBeau had listened in. Gretel had insisted that LeBeau should be killed to cripple the Unsung Heroes and allow her to get her revenge on Newkirk for discrediting her. Sandiego, on the other hand, had insisted that LeBeau would be more useful alive, as he could be used as leverage to get Newkirk—and, more importantly, Colonel Hogan—to bend to their demands.

Gretel had reluctantly agreed that LeBeau might be temporarily useful, but insisted that he be drugged to appear dead. Sandiego had concurred, but she had provided the diluted drug. As a result, LeBeau had hung onto consciousness long enough to hear Gretel gloat about how Newkirk would undoubtedly head to the theatre after seeing LeBeau in the impalement box. The German woman had further suggested having the doppelganger imitate Newkirk long enough to get Mavis to the vicinity of the theatre, as well, whereupon they could ensnare both siblings into a trap; having Mavis captured would allow for even more leverage. Unfortunately, it was then that the Frenchman had truly fallen unconscious.

LeBeau opened his eyes again, his head slowly becoming clearer as the effects of the diluted drug began to fade.

"They are going to lure Pierre and Mavis there and trap them both," he said. "I do not know what they plan to do after that, but I fear for the both of them."

Carter's eyes widened. He should have expected that they would have been waiting for Newkirk at the theatre.

"André, we must get there! Pierre will need help!" LeBeau exclaimed, as he managed to sit up. "I will be fine enough to go. We cannot afford to wait any longer!"

"Um… right," Carter said. "Listen, you sit tight here for a minute; I need to go upstairs and check something. You make sure you're okay before we head out."

LeBeau nodded as Carter headed upstairs to the master bedroom. The closet door was open, and the gurney and the robotics that had been inside it were gone. Their foes had abandoned this place; they likely would've returned once more to pick up LeBeau, which left the question of why LeBeau had awakened so soon. Neither the American nor the Frenchman knew the truth about how Sandiego had diluted the drug.

Still puzzled, Carter went back downstairs, surprised to see LeBeau shakily getting to his feet by holding onto the furniture.

"Hey!" he exclaimed, helping steady his friend. "I thought I told you to sit tight!"

"I will be fine, André," LeBeau promised. "It is Pierre who is in trouble."

Carter knew they had no choice, so he helped LeBeau out the door, hoping that they weren't too late already.

Newkirk had a lot of time to think on the bus trip back to Greater London. He realized that there wouldn't have been any way of stopping LeBeau from helping him; the Frenchman was just as stubborn as he was. Perhaps that was why they always ended up arguing with each other.

He sighed to himself, recalling what Carter had told him about LeBeau's will. That would have to come up in their discussion after this was all over. As Carter had mentioned earlier, Newkirk had been too devastated to be angry. Now, he was still preoccupied to be angry, but he honestly couldn't think he could be angry at LeBeau—not after nearly losing him like that…

His thoughts were immediately interrupted as he happened to glance out the window. His double was there, on the sidewalk beside the road; he was walking normally instead of his Springheel Jack stance, and he was wearing LeBeau's red scarf around his own neck. More importantly, though, Mavis was walking beside him. Newkirk recognized the smile on her face—it was a very forced smile. She knew she wasn't talking to her real brother, but had gone along with him because she was worried for her real one.

"OI!" Newkirk called to the bus driver, as the bus began to pull ahead of Mavis and the impostor. "Stop this bus! I need to get off!"

The bus driver looked at him, baffled; Newkirk had spoken with a Scottish accent when he had boarded the bus, but, in his panic, he had spoken in his normal Cockney accent.

"Look, let me off!" Newkirk said again. "I've already paid me fare; 'ere's extra, if that's what it'll take!"

The corporal shoved a few pound notes into the driver's hands, who decided that it wasn't worth forcing this weirdo to stay if he didn't want to. He let Newkirk off, who ducked into the shadow of a building.

He didn't have to wait long for them to pass by. Mavis was incredibly nervous, and the double seemed to sense it.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

"Wrong?" Mavis asked. "Of course not! I was just wondering when you'd get around to inviting me along to the costume party that you and Louis were going on about. I've got to find a costume for meself, if that's the case."

"About that…" the doppelganger said, hiding a smirk. "I'm afraid Louis won't be able to stay in London after all; 'e found out that 'e needs to return to Paris immediately. It's a ruddy shame, but no one regrets it more than I."

Newkirk snapped. It was lucky that the double and Mavis were close enough; he lunged at his doppelganger, tackling him to the ground.

Mavis screamed as Newkirk came out of nowhere, still in his kilt as he dove at his double. The double cursed loudly as the real Newkirk began to wrestle with him.

"Why don't you tell 'er the truth?" the real Newkirk hissed. "You made it look as though Louis was dead just to drive me mad! 'eaven knows what else you were planning for 'im—and me sister, too!"

"Peter, look out!" Mavis screamed, as the double pulled out a knife to stab the corporal.

Newkirk pulled out his pencil sharpener and parried the blow.

"I made a vow that I was going to end this," Newkirk said, knocking the knife out of his double's hand. "You and those witches already 'urt me little mate." He struck the double in the jaw. "That's for 'im!" He struck him again, this time, in the stomach. "And that's for Andrew!" Again. "For Kinch!" Once more. "For the Guv'nor!"

Mavis ran over and kicked the double in the side.

"And that's for me brother, you ruddy—"

"Newkirk!" Hogan's voice called from down the street.

The siblings and the double looked to see Hogan, Kinch, and the constable heading towards them. The double cursed, trying to make a break for it, but Newkirk had firmly pinned him to the ground.

The constable stared at the two grappling look-alikes.

"Which one is the real one?" he asked, baffled.

"The one in the kilt," Hogan replied, seizing the double by the wrists. The doppelganger struggled, but he was no match for the colonel, and the constable soon had handcuffs over his wrist. The real Newkirk launched into a furious explanation of what had happened at Epping, though Hogan managed to get him to calm down long enough for the corporal to put together a plan involving going to the theatre to confront Gretel and Sandiego.

"They're waiting for you," the double sneered.

Newkirk swore at him, grabbing LeBeau's scarf from around the double's neck and wearing it himself.

"Then it looks like I'm going to 'ave to impersonate you for a change," he said, with a sneer. "And blimey, I'm ready to get out of this kilt."

The constable looked to Hogan helplessly.

"Don't tell me that Colonel Wembley will want me to go along with this, too!"

Hogan gave him a helpless shrug, but after finding a place to make the change, the switch was made, with the doppelganger now most annoyed at his new wardrobe.

"It's going to be a bit awkward, doing those 'igh-jumps in a kilt," Newkirk sneered at his double. "Who are you, really?"

The double averted his gaze, but decided to talk in the hopes that he would be let off with a lighter sentence.

"My real name is Arthur "High-Jump" Holmes—an entertainer, specializing in acrobatics and a bit of firebreathing. Several months ago, I was found by that German woman. She said I looked a lot like a British spy—a corporal who had been a prisoner of war. She offered me a large sum of money if I had the necessary plastic surgery to impersonate this corporal and frame him for a series of violent robberies when the time was right."

Hogan folded his arms.

"There's a traitor in General Barton's staff," he realized. "That's the only way word could've gotten out to Gretel."

"I don't know anything about that," Holmes insisted. "All I know is that I was willing to play my part for the money she promised. I did as she and that Spanish lady—Miss Sandiego—ordered; I robbed people while acting as the Springheel Jack. At Sandiego's request, I rifled through her house and stole that brooch to plant it in his flat." He indicated the emerald brooch still in Newkirk's hand. "And it was Gretel who insisted that the next victim of the Springheel Jack die so that the real Corporal Newkirk would be framed for the murder. When that still led nowhere, it was to the delight of the ladies that the Frenchman showed up at Sandiego's house; they then decided to make it appear as though he had vanished. Since the entire building had heard him shouting and fighting with Newkirk the previous night, it would have been too easy to frame him for the Frenchman's disappearance, and add it on as another murder charge."

Newkirk drew back for another punch, but Hogan stopped him.

"What was your link to the magic theatre?" the colonel asked. "Other than the dress uniform you wore the first robbery, there was no other link that we found."

"I'm telling you, it was Pandora's Impalement Box that Andrew and I found Louis in," Newkirk insisted. "Pandora is the one—"

"Pandora…" Holmes scoffed. "He was another one that was easy to frame, being so antisocial and all. You may have kept an eye on him through his entire performance, but you seemed to have missed taking a closer look at his blond assistant."

"Gretel was the assistant," Kinch said, shaking his head. "We should've guessed…"

"And she's waiting at the theatre?" Newkirk asked.

Holmes grunted in agreement.

"She and the Spanish lady—they wanted me to deliver your sister to them. Then they'd take her and the Frenchman and use them as bargaining chips for the rest of their plan."

"And that's where Newkirk came in," Hogan finished. "I guess we've got no other choice than to go along with the plan of having him impersonate the impersonator."

"We'll have to give him and Mavis a fifteen minute headstart to make sure that the women don't suspect anything," Kinch said.

"I'll leave you two chaps to that while I take this one back," the constable said. "I'll have backup sent to the theatre to help you."

Hogan nodded and looked to Mavis.

"The final decision is up to you, Miss Newkirk. If you don't mind taking a risk by going to the theatre with your brother, you could help us bring those two women to justice."

"I'll go with 'im," she said. "But there's one thing I don't understand about all this. Why would anyone want to frame Peter for robberies and murder—and especially Louis' murder?"

An awkward silence was all that answered her until the colonel cleared his throat.

"I'm afraid I can't answer that."

Mavis gave a nod, realizing that there was more to this—and to her brother's time at Stalag 13—than she had first thought.

She and Newkirk headed off towards the theatre.

"Poor Louis," she whispered. "It's a miracle that they didn't kill 'im once 'e found your double."

Newkirk sighed.

"I thought I'd lost 'im," he said, quietly.

"Louis really is a close mate of yours. Andrew, too, for that matter," she said.

"You 'ave no idea. Andrew told me that Louis wrote me into 'is will and left nearly everything to me—possessions, money, and even his restaurant."

"Blimey," she whispered. "Not even Roger would've done something like that."

Newkirk blinked, distracted by her words. The little voice in his head began to whisper into his ear once again.

Face it, Peter—she's right. Maybe Roger was your best mate once, but things have changed. The war changed things, and it changed you. Louis nearly died out there for you, and even if he had, that will of his would've been his way of continuing to help you…

"Peter?" Mavis whispered softly. "We're 'ere."

Newkirk gave a nod.

"I'll tell them you've gone to me dressing room, but I want you to go to Warwick's. Stay there until you 'ear from me or the Guv'nor and the others that it's safe."

Mavis nodded and did as her brother had instructed. Newkirk, in the meantime, coolly headed to Pandora's dressing room and knocked on the door.

It took every fiber of his being to remain emotionless when Gretel opened the door. She was in her costume as Pandora's assistant. Miss Sandiego was at the table, touching up her makeup.

"You're late. Where is she?" Gretel asked, using the same, cold tone she had used when she had first revealed herself as Hochstetter's spy back in Stalag 13.

"She's in the real Newkirk's dressing room," he lied, using his flair for vocal imitation to echo Holmes' real voice.

"Excellent," she said, moving to head out the door.

"Hold it," he said, trying to stall. "The real one will be here soon. Exactly what do you intend to do?"

"You will leave that to me," Gretel said. "But first, I want that girl in our custody. Come, Josefina."

Miss Sandiego rolled her eyes ever so slightly, but followed her, with Newkirk close behind.

"I heard from Major Hochstetter earlier, though one of our contacts," Gretel was saying. "He wishes to convey his thanks for the work you have been doing, Holmes."

"The major's wish is my command," Newkirk said. "I am only pleased that I can be of service to him—and to yourself, of course."

"That is very flattering…" Gretel began, but trailed off as they arrived at Newkirk's empty dressing room. "I thought you said she was in here."

"She must have stepped out for a moment," the Englishman bluffed. "I'll go find her—"

"Stay right where you are," Gretel hissed, aiming a gun at him. She merely smirked in response to his shock. "You forgot that your fake voices cannot fool me, Corporal Newkirk."

Newkirk cursed—both Gretel and his own stupidity; even before he had found out that she had been a spy, Gretel had revealed that she had seen through Newkirk's fake German accent in a heartbeat.

"Turn around," she ordered. "Schnell."

Newkirk obeyed, though he tried to watch her out of the corner of his eye.

"And what do you intend to do now?" he inquired.

"First, I will have Josefina find your sister. But you will not see her; you see, you will be dead by the time we find her."

"It apparently 'asn't occurred to you that Colonel 'ogan is on 'is way 'ere right now?"

"Of course it has occurred to me, but I will not give him the pleasure of finding you alive. If I cannot have you framed, then I'll simply have to have you buried. Now, walk—slowly; we are going to the stage. One false move, and you will be shot."

"If you're going to kill me, anyway, why not just get the ruddy business over with?" Newkirk asked, dryly, staying put.

"Because we know that your sister is here; we both saw the two of you arriving from the outer lobby," she said, simply. "So, if not for your own sake, I suggest complying for hers. Josefina, go find her."

The Spanish lady folded her arms, but walked off into the darkened corridor.

Newkirk cursed, but did as Gretel ordered.

"I really don't see why you can't shoot me," he said, wryly, as they arrived at the stage. "Wouldn't it make things easier?"

"You said it yourself; Colonel Hogan is coming. I'll save the bullets for him."

Newkirk paled, now trying to plan an escape for the sole purpose of getting her to use up her ammunition, but Gretel sensed it; she struck him across the back of the head with the gun handle. It wasn't enough to knock him out, but it did render him temporarily senseless, which was all the time that Gretel needed. She shoved him onto Sergeant Flood's Table of Death, whereupon she shackled his ankles and wrists into the manacles. Still not satisfied, she took two pairs of handcuffs and further shackled each of Newkirk's wrists to the table legs.

Newkirk tried to shake the stars from his vision and fight back, but by the time his head cleared, Gretel had grabbed LeBeau's scarf from around his neck and used it to gag him.

"You were always an escape artist, weren't you?" she taunted. "You escaped from Stalag 13 to see me, you escaped from a transfer, and you somehow escaped from Major Hochstetter after he had sealed off the entire camp. My new employers do not want such an escape artist alive, and after what you put me through, neither do I."

She lit a small fire in a metal dish and placed it under the rope that held the top board of spikes that was suspended directly above the corporal. Newkirk let out several muffled curses.

"The extra handcuffs will ensure that you will not be able to use any trickery to escape as your friend Flood does," she said. "I figured that Colonel Hogan gave you a headstart of fifteen minutes; if that is the case, then there are five minutes left. By that time, the rope will have burned through."

She smirked at him, and the rage in his eyes.

"You were stupid to think that I would let you and your fellow saboteurs have the last laugh," she said.

She walked away, making sure to turn off the stage lights. The only light in the darkened room was that of the fire eating away at the rope, counting down the minutes until the fall of the spikes—and Death's scythe.

Nobody, save for Sandiego, knew that LeBeau and Carter would arrive at the theatre. Having come from a different direction and method, they had arrived without seeing the altercation between Newkirk and Holmes and, subsequently, had arrived at the theatre shortly before Newkirk and Mavis had even gotten there.

"How could we have beaten Newkirk here?" Carter asked. "I hope we're not too late. Do you think those girls would be able to haul him off somewhere?"

"I would not put anything past them," LeBeau said, having recovered enough to stand and walk on his own.

They checked Newkirk's dressing room, finding nothing, and searched the nearby area for several minutes. It was during this time that Newkirk had been leading Gretel and Sandiego here; Carter was the first to hear the approaching footsteps, and he frantically pulled LeBeau along, under the mistaken impression that the Newkirk with the women was the doppelganger. They were well out of earshot by the time that Gretel revealed that she had known it was the real Newkirk with them.

"We need to find some way of finding the real Pierre before they do," LeBeau whispered, as he and Carter slipped down the darkened corridor, unaware that Sandiego was also heading that way.

"Well, you know Peter—he can get in and out of any door," Carter whispered back. "He's probably hiding in one of these rooms until he can make his move."

"Then we had better check each one," LeBeau said. "You check the ones on the left, and I will check the ones on the right."

"Sounds like a plan, but be careful."

It was here they parted ways, picking locks and looking inside the rooms. Sandiego arrived on the scene to see LeBeau duck into one of the rooms, and she smiled; it had been exactly as she planned.

She slipped into the room behind him and suddenly clapped a hand over his mouth.

"If you are looking for your friend, I recommend you going to the stage, Señor LeBeau," she whispered. "Gretel has a bad habit of indiscriminately killing her foes without seeing the potential they have alive. It's a habit that I would like to help end, and seeing as though your friend's life is at stake, I am sure you would, as well. You see, that was the real Señor Newkirk with us, and Gretel figured it out."

LeBeau yelped as she threw him across the room; he turned on the spot, but she had vanished. He ran out to the hall, but there wasn't a trace of her.

"André!" he whispered as loudly as he dared. "André, where are you?"

He received no answer, but knew that there was no time. He did not like the idea of trusting Sandiego, but he had to admit to himself that she had been the one to lobby in support of keeping him alive when Gretel had been ready to kill him on the spot.

For some reason, she wanted the Unsung Heroes alive. But now wasn't the time to question why; it was to ensure that it stayed that way.

Praying that Carter would be safe, LeBeau slipped down the corridor, heading towards the stage. His heart hammered in his chest as he arrived, finding it seemingly deserted; there was no light, save for a small fire, which was odd in and of itself.

Slowly and carefully, he walked towards the fire, noticing that it seemed to be burning through a rope. But where were Newkirk and Gretel, as Sandiego had warned him?

Unease filled him, and he moved to retreat, but something stopped him from going. Again, he walked towards the fire, this time from a different angle.

Meanwhile, on the table, Newkirk had long since shut his eyes in despair, saying his last prayers and hoping that Mavis and the others would somehow survive this, even if he didn't.

Even as Newkirk shut his eyes, the light from the fire was still able to fall on his eyelids, but, suddenly, the light was blocked. The Englishman opened his eyes to see the silhouette of someone directly in his line of vision, walking towards the flame, cautiously. And there was no mistaking the silhouette's short height.

The Englishman let out a muffled plea, wondering how LeBeau had recovered so quickly and had known to come here, but he wasn't going to question the miracle. He tried his best to call out the Frenchman's name, but he didn't need to; LeBeau was at his side in a heartbeat.

"Pierre!" he gasped, horrified, feeling the shackles and handcuffs. "What has she done to you?"

Newkirk desperately tried to warn LeBeau that the rope had almost burned through, and that there would be no time to unshackle him. LeBeau quickly removed his scarf from the Englishman's mouth.

"Louis, the rope!" he cried. "Grab the rope!"

LeBeau dashed across the stage towards the burning rope; he was inches from it when it snapped. The Frenchman jumped, grabbing the ascending rope just in time. He let out a yell as the heavy, spike-studded board tried to descend. Gritting his teeth and pulling as hard as he could, he was dismayed to realize that the drug had not fully worn off, and he could not pull the rope down to secure it.

"Pierre!" he gasped, the strain evident in his voice. "Pierre, I do not know for how long I can hold it!"

"Just 'ang on long enough for me to tell you what I need to, Little Mate!" Newkirk gasped, shutting his eyes again. "I'm sorry, Louis. 'eaven only knows 'ow much of this could've been avoided if I 'ad just 'ad the modesty to admit that you were right all along, and I was wrong." He shuddered. "I thought you were dead when I found you in that box, and then Andrew told me about your will… I wanted to be furious, but I couldn't. I guess it was because it was me pride that 'ad gotten you killed."

"What pride? It was my own stupidity for walking straight into the lion's den and thinking nothing would happen to me…"

"I drove you to it," Newkirk insisted. "Louis… All I can do is ask for your forgiveness." He sighed, having said his piece as concisely as possible. "You can let go now, Louis."

"Êtes-vous fou?" LeBeau hissed.

"…I didn't think you would."

The Frenchman didn't reply to this; he was trying to summon his strength for one last desperate attempt. Ignoring his screaming arm muscles, he pulled down on the rope, forcing the suspended spikes to rise as far as they could. He wrapped the rope around one of the hooks used to suspend heavy backdrops and scenery, and did his best to tie it in place. However, his hands and arms were numb, and the knot was not a good one. It would not hold for long, but he prayed it would be long enough.

Keeping his eye on the knot, he headed back to Newkirk and unshackled his ankles and wrists from the table, but stared in dismay at Gretel's additional handcuffs.

"Do you have a lock-pick?" he asked, helplessly.

"I don't know; this is the uniform me double was wearing. You'll 'ave to look in the pockets and see."

"There is no time!" LeBeau cried, glancing back at the loosening knot.

He ran back to the rope, grabbing it again, hoping to tie it in place again, but his arms refused to summon enough strength for him to hold it in that position. The spikes slipped back down, with LeBeau desperately holding on to the end of the rope to keep them from falling the rest of the way.

"I… I cannot…" he gasped, his fingers whitening.

Newkirk struggled to sit up as much as the handcuffs would allow him, but, suddenly, a light bulb went off over his head. The handcuffs were shackling his arms to the table's legs, not the top of the table.

He suddenly launched into a backward roll, which, as he had hoped, sent him off the table and flat on his face on the floor; his extended arms were still handcuffed to the table legs.

There was a cry as LeBeau's strength failed him, and the rope slipped from his hands as he fell to the stage floor. The spikes came crashing down upon the table, and all was silent, save for one horrified whisper.

"Pierre…"

"I'm all right, Louis!" Newkirk gasped as he caught his breath.

LeBeau scrambled over to him at once, uttering a prayer. A search of the jacket pockets revealed that Holmes had carried a set of lock-picks with him, and Newkirk was soon free.

"Ironic," Newkirk muttered, as he sat up. "I come 'ere to avenge you, and you end up saving me."

"Just barely," LeBeau said, noticeably upset at cutting it so close.

"You didn't 'ave to push yourself so 'ard," Newkirk said. "I told you let the ruddy thing go; at least one of us could've escaped."

"I know you said to do that," LeBeau said. "But I didn't feel like rewriting my will."

He looked to the Englishman, who glanced back at him. Newkirk responded by wordlessly pulling LeBeau into a brotherly embrace. The Frenchman returned it as best as his sore arms would allow.