Hendle closed the door and returned to Carrington. "Take out the will and let us have a look at it," he said in a weary voice.
"Won't you wait until to-morrow?" asked Carrington, glancing at him. "This row has upset you."
"No. I want to see the will now. It may disappear again."
Carrington took out the crumpled parchment from his pocket. "Look after it yourself, then, and you can be certain that it is safe."
"All right. But let us look at it together. Move that lamp nearer."
Carrington did so, and Hendle spread out the rustling sheets--three or four of them, as the will was tolerably long. It was written, as wills of the early nineteenth century usually were, on parchment in a clear, scholarly hand, the writing being excellently engrossed and excellently preserved. The parchment itself was soiled and dog-eared, blotched here and there with coffee-brown stains: but it had suffered little damage during its hundred years' imprisonment in the muniment chest. With Carrington seated beside him the Squire slowly read the faded brown writing, and gradually made himself master of the contents. When he came to the signature of the testator and the names of the two witnesses, he drew a long breath and looked at the barrister in frank dismay.
"It seems quite legal," he said in a despairing voice.
"Quite," agreed Carrington. "So far I can't see anything wrong."
"And John Hendle by this"--Rupert struck the parchment--"leaves all his property, with the exception of sundry legacies to people now dead and buried, to Eunice Hendle, afterward Eunice Filbert, and her heirs. Yes. Leigh said as much. Frederick would have been disinherited had this will been produced in the year 1815. I wonder how it got lost."
"Frederick may have----"