His glance roamed vaguely over the shelves. Wimsey, with the book-lover's instinct, was the first to spot the Chronicle, wedged at the extreme end of the shelf, against the outer wall. He hitched his finger into the top edge of the spine, but finding that the rotting leather was ready to crumble at a touch, he dislodged a neighbouring book and drew the Chronicle gently out, using his whole hand.
"Here he is—in pretty bad condition, I'm afraid. Hullo!"
As he drew the book away from the wall, a piece of folded parchment came away with it and fell at his feet. He stooped and picked it up.
"I say, Burdock—isn't this what you've been looking for?"
Haviland Burdock, who had been rooting about on one of the lower shelves, straightened himself quickly, his face red from stooping.
"By Jove!" he said, turning first redder and then pale with excitement. "Look at this, Winnie. It's the governor's will. What an extraordinary thing! Whoever would have thought of looking for it here, of all places?"
"Is it really the will?" cried Mrs. Hancock.
"No doubt about it, I should say," observed Wimsey coolly. "Last Will and Testament of Simon Burdock." He stood, turning the grimy document over and over in his hands, looking from the endorsement to the plain side of the folded parchment.
"Well, well!" said Mr. Hancock. "How strange! It seems almost providential that you should have taken that book down."
"What does the will say?" demanded Mrs. Burdock, in some excitement.