Mr. Chester looked at him, frowning thoughtfully, and my heart grew cold within me. To be too late now! But in a moment, his brows relaxed.
“Mr. Jones,” he said, turning to the notary, “the will specifically states that the heirs are to be allowed one month to find this treasure, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And nothing that we or anyone else can do in the meantime can alter that?”
“I should think not; no, sir, certainly not.”
“Very well. Mrs. Nelson did not die until twelve minutes after twelve o’clock; so we have still,” added Mr. Chester, glancing at his watch, “twenty minutes in which to find this treasure. If we do find it within that time, the property belongs to Mrs. Truman and her children.”
“No, you don’t!” snarled Silas, again. “Don’t try any of your lawyer tricks on me. I won’t stand it! You’ve give it up, I tell you; you can’t go back on your word!”
The room was still as death; everyone seemed to hold his breath with the suspense of the moment.
Only Mr. Chester was apparently unmoved. With a sharp snip, which cut the silence like a knife, he ripped open the square of the quilt and drew forth a flat package of papers. He opened it, and looked them over with a quick movement. I could see that his hands were trembling a little despite himself. I was watching him intent, with bated breath, but I was still conscious, somehow, of Tom’s white, strained face beside me. What a dear fellow he was!
Mr. Chester passed the papers to the notary, and the two held a moment’s whispered conference as they looked them over. Then Mr. Chester turned back to us, and his face was beaming.