JOHN HARDY'S WILL
Garrison slept the sleep of physical exhaustion that night in
Branchville. The escape from New York's noise and turmoil was welcome
to his weary body. He had been on a strain day after day, and much of
it still remained. Yet, having cleared away the mystery concerning
Hardy's death, he felt entitled to a let-down of the tension.
In the morning he was early on the road to Hickwood--his faculties all
eagerly focused on the missing will. He felt it might all prove the
merest vagary of his mind--his theory of his respecting old Hardy and
this testament. But stubbornly his mind clung fast to a few important
facts.
Old Hardy had always been secretive, for Dorothy had so reported. He
had carried his will away with him on leaving Albany. It had not been
stolen--so far as anyone could know. Coupled with all this was the
fact that the dead man's hands' had been stained upon the
knuckles--stained black, with a grimy something hard to wash
away--perhaps the soot, the greasy, moldy old soot of a chimney,
encountered in the act of secreting the will, and later only partially
removed. It seemed as clear as crystal to the reasoning mind of
Garrison as he hastened along on the road.
He passed the home of Scott, the inventor, and mentally jotted down a
reminder that the man, being innocent, must be paid his insurance now
without delay.
Mrs. Wilson was working in her garden, at the rear of the house, when
Garrison arrived. She was wonderfully pleased to see him. She had
read the papers--which Garrison had not--and discovered what a truly
remarkable personage he was.
The credit of more than ordinarily clever work had been meted out by
the columnful, and his name glared boldly from the vivid account of all
he had done in the case. All this and more he found himself obliged to
face at the hands of Mrs. Wilson, before he could manage to enter the
house and go as before to Hardy's room.
It was just precisely as he had seen it on his former visit. It had
not been rented since, partially on account of the fact that Hardy's
fate had cast an evil shadow upon it.
Garrison lost no time in his search. He followed his theory. It led
him straight to the fireplace, with its crudely painted board, built to
occupy its opening. Behind this, he felt, should be the will.
The board was stuck. Mrs. Wilson hastened to her sitting-room to fetch
a screwdriver back to pry it out. Garrison gave it a kick, at the
bottom, in her absence, thus jarring it loose, and the top fell forward
in his hand.
He put his hand far up, inside the chimney--and on a ledge of brick,
where his knuckles picked up a coating of moldy, greasy soot, his
fingers encountered an envelope and knocked it from its lodgment. It
fell on the fender at the bottom of the place. He caught it up, only
taking time to note a line, "Will of John Hardy," written upon it--and,
cramming it into his pocket, thrust the board back into place as Mrs.
Wilson entered at the door.
It was not with intent to deceive the good woman that he had thus
abruptly decided to deny her the knowledge of his find, but rather as a
sensible precaution against mere idle gossip, which could achieve no
particular advantage.
Therefore when she pried the board from place, and nothing was
discovered behind it, he thanked her profusely, made a wholly
perfunctory examination of the room, and presently escaped.
Not until he found himself far from any house, on the road he was
treading to Branchville, did he think of removing the package from his
pocket. He found it then to be a plain white envelope indorsed with
this inscription:
Last will of John Hardy. To be opened after my death, and then by my
niece, Dorothy Fairfax, only.
Denied the knowledge whether it might mean fortune or poverty to the
girl he loved, and feeling that, after all, his labors might heap great
unearned rewards on Fairfax, bestowing on himself the mere hollow
consciousness that his work had been well performed, he was presently
seated once more in a train that roared its way down to New York.
There was still an hour left of the morning when he alighted at the
Grand Central Station. He went at once to Dorothy's latest abode.
She was out. The landlady knew nothing whatever of her whereabouts.
Impatient of every delay, and eager to know not only the contents of
the will, but what it might mean to have Dorothy gone in this manner,
he felt himself baffled and helpless. He could only leave a note and
proceed to his office.
Tuttle was there when he arrived. He had nothing to report of
Fairfax--of whom Garrison himself had heard no word in Branchville--but
concerning the house in Ninety-third Street there was just a mite of
news.
He had been delayed in entering by the temporary absence of the
caretaker. He had finally succeeded in making his way to the closet in
Theodore's room--and the telephone was gone. Theodore had evidently
found a means to enter by the stairs at the rear, perhaps through the
house next door. The caretaker felt quite certain he had not set foot
inside the door since Garrison issued his orders.
Garrison wrote a note to Theodore, in reply to the one received the day
before, suggesting a meeting here at this office at noon, or as soon as
convenient.
"Take that out," he said to Tuttle, "and send it by messenger. Then
return to the house where Fairfax had his room and see if there's any
news of him."
Tuttle opened the door to go just as Dorothy, who had arrived outside,
was about to knock. Garrison beheld her as she stepped slightly back.
He rose from his seat and hastened towards her.
"Excuse me," said Tuttle, and he went his way.
"Come in," said Garrison. "Come in, Dorothy. I've been at your house
and missed you."
She was somewhat pale.
"Yes, I couldn't stay--I wanted to see you the moment you returned,"
she told him. "Theodore has found my address, I don't know how, and
sent me a note in which he says he has something new--some dreadful
surprise----"
"Never mind Theodore," Garrison interrupted. "Sit down and get your
breath. He couldn't have come upon much in all his hunting--much, I
mean, that we do not already know. In the meantime, get ready for
news--I can't tell what sort of news, but--I've found your uncle's
latest will!"
Dorothy made no attempt to speak for a moment. Her face became almost
ashen. Then it brightened. Alarm went from her eyes and she even
mustered a smile.
"It doesn't make a great deal of difference now, whatever Uncle John
may have done," she said. "Foster and Alice will be all right--but,
where did you find it? Where has it been?"
"I found it at the room he occupied in Hickwood--and fetched it along."
He produced it from his pocket and placed it in her hand.
Despite her most courageous efforts she was weak and nervously excited.
Her hands fairly trembled as she tore the envelope across.
"Take it calmly," said Garrison. "Don't be hurried."
She could make no reply. She drew the will from its sheath and,
spreading it open, glanced through it rapidly.
"Dear Uncle John!" she presently said, in a voice that all but broke.
"He has willed it all to me, with no conditions--all except a nice
little sum for Foster--poor Foster, I'm so glad!"
She broke down and cried.
Garrison said nothing. He went to the window and let her cry it out.
She was drying her eyes, in an effort to regain her self-control, when
someone knocked and immediately opened the door.
Garrison turned. Dorothy had risen quickly to her feet.
It was Theodore who stood in the doorway. He had come before
Garrison's note could be delivered.
"Come in," said Garrison. "You're just the man I wish to see."