“Look!” cried Poirot in triumph.
I looked. There were just a few lines of faint writing stating briefly that he left everything to his niece Violet Marsh. It was dated March 25, twelve-thirty p. m., and witnessed by Albert Pike, confectioner, and Jessie Pike, married woman.
“But is it legal?” I gasped.
“As far as I know, there is no law against writing your will in a blend of disappearing and sympathetic ink. The intention of the testator is clear, and the beneficiary is his only living relation. But the cleverness of him! He foresaw every step that a searcher would take, that I, miserable imbecile, took! He gets two will-forms, makes the servants sign twice, then sallies out with his will written on the inside of a dirty envelope, and a fountain pen containing his little ink-mixture. On some excuse he gets the confectioner and his wife to sign their names under his own signature; then he ties it to the key of his desk and chuckles to himself. If his niece sees through his little ruse, she will have justified her choice of life and elaborate education and be thoroughly welcome to his money.”
“She didn’t see through it, did she?” I said slowly. “It seems rather unfair. The old man really won.”
“But no, Hastings! It is your wits that go astray. Miss Marsh proved the astuteness of her wits and the value of the higher education for women by at once putting the matter in my hands. Always employ the expert! She has amply proved her right to the money.”
I wonder—I very much wonder what old Andrew Marsh would have thought!
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the January, 1925 issue of The Blue Book Magazine.