“Wait a bit, wait a bit,” said Mr. Crawford. “Phil's right; there's no possibility of Florrie or Hall in the matter. Leave the gold bag, the newspapers, and the yellow posies out of consideration, and go to work in some sensible way.”
“How about Mr. Joseph's finances?” I asked. “Are they in satisfactory shape?”
“Never finer,” said Philip Crawford. “Joseph was a very rich man, and all due to his own clever and careful investments. A bit of a speculator, but always on the right side of the market. Why, he fairly had a corner in X.Y. stock. Just that deal—and it will go through in a few days—means a fortune in itself. I shall settle that on Florence.”
“Then you think the will will never be found?” I said.
Mr. Crawford looked a little ashamed, as well he might, but he only said,
“If it is, no one will be more glad than I to see Florrie reinstated in her own right. If no will turns up, Joe's estate is legally mine, but I shall see that Florence is amply provided for.”
He spoke with a proud dignity, and I was rather sorry I had caught him up so sharply.
I went back to the inn, and, after vainly racking my brain over it all for a time, I turned in, but to a miserably broken night's rest.