"What?" The lawyer was on his feet and had his hands on Frank's shoulders.
"You say Stanhope? Why, man alive! I've been looking high and low for you. What do you think of that, Doctor, I've found him at last!"
"Young man," said Maddoc, turning again to Frank, "will you please answer a few questions? Did you ever know a queer old man by the name of Scroggie?"
"Why, yes," Frank answered, somewhat puzzled. "He lived next farm to me."
"And," Maddoc resumed, "do you happen to know that he made a will, leaving all he possessed to you?"
"Yes, sir, so he said; but the will was never found."
"And for a very good reason, by George," cried Maddoc. "How could it be found when it lay safely locked in a deposit box in my vault?"
"I'm afraid I don't quite understand—" commenced the amazed Stanhope.
"Of course not, how could you?" cried the lawyer. "But there now, I'll explain.
"One morning something over a year ago a queer little man came to my office. He told me his name, Scroggie, but refused to give me any address. He said he wished to make his will and insisted that I draw it up. It was a simple will, as I remember it, merely stating that 'I something-or-other, Scroggie, hereby bequeath all my belongings, including land and money, to Frank Stanhope.' I made it out exactly as he worded it, had it sealed and witnessed and handed it to him. But the old fellow refused to take it. I asked him why, and he said: 'You keep it safe until I send for it. I'm willin' to pay for your trouble.'