"Stolen, of course," said Polly, "by those who murdered and robbed him; it may have been of no value to them, but they naturally would destroy it, lest it might prove a clue against them."
"Then you think it was mere coincidence?" he asked excitedly.
"What?"
"That Wethered was murdered and robbed at the very moment that he carried the will in his pocket, whilst another was being forged in its place?"
"It certainly would be very curious, if it were a coincidence," she said musingly.
"Very," he repeated with biting sarcasm, whilst nervously his bony fingers played with the inevitable bit of string. "Very curious indeed. Just think of the whole thing. There was the old man with all his wealth, and two sons, one to whom he is devoted, and the other with whom he does nothing but quarrel. One day there is another of these quarrels, but more violent, more terrible than any that have previously occurred, with the result that the father, heartbroken by it all, has an attack of apoplexy and practically dies of a broken heart. After that he alters his will, and subsequently a will is proved which turns out to be a forgery.
"Now everybody—police, press, and public alike—at once jump to the conclusion that, as Percival Brooks benefits by that forged will, Percival Brooks must be the forger."
"Seek for him whom the crime benefits, is your own axiom," argued the girl.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Percival Brooks benefited to the tune of £2,000,000."