‘What!’ cried Josh, his white face flushing. ‘Why o’ course they are! I forgot. These here things are what I got at the Hall.’
‘Good Heavens, man!’ said George, ‘why didn’t you tell me you had them? They’re all conclusive evidence of my innocence of that monstrous crime of which I was suspected.’
‘Don’t talk so quick,’ said Heckett, ‘don’t talk so quick, guv’nor. I’m weak, and I carn’t think in a hurry. Yes—yes—these are all yours. No church won’t have’em. I can give ‘em back to you. It’ll be a sin off my soul, won’t it?’
George had taken the box from the old burglar’s trembling hands, while Bess and Gertie looked on, astonished spectators of the scene.
‘These are the jewels,’ cried George, lifting them to the light, ‘that my poor father prized and never would part with! Often have I seen him gazing at them and whispering my mother’s name.’
Suddenly from the things in the box George drew a faded sheet of paper, and looked at it steadfastly.
‘It’s my father’s handwriting,’ he said softly, placing it to his lips. ‘Poor old dad! poor old dad!’
Gently he unfolded the writing and read it from beginning to end; then he lifted his eyes, streaming with tears, and said:
‘Thank God! thank God! he forgave me!’
George Heritage had read the codicil by which his father had revoked the will which left his property to Ruth Adrian, and had given everything once more to his beloved son.