He went to the surrogate’s office. When he returned home, he said, “Well, Mrs. Ripley, the enemy has had his Waterloo! The orphan asylum and the home for working-girls will continue to enjoy Bernard Peixada’s wealth.”
“Why, how is that?” Ruth questioned.
“The will fell through.”
“Fell through? Was it a forgery? Or what?”
“No, it wasn’t a forgery, but it was a holograph. That is to say, the testator was rash enough to draw it himself—without the assistance of a lawyer; and so he contrived to make a fatal blunder. It seems that the law requires a person, upon signing his will, to explain explicitly to the witnesses the nature of the document—that it is a will, and not a deed, or a contract, or what not. And that is precisely what Mr. Peixada fortunately omitted to do. The witnesses swore that he had said nothing whatever concerning the character of the instrument—that he had simply requested them to attest his signature, and then had folded the paper up, and put it into his pocket. The lawyer—Arthur’s successor—pressed them pretty hard, but they weren’t to be shaken; and the clerk thereupon declared that the will was void and valueless; and then there was a lot of excitement; and I came away; and that’s how the case stands at present.”
“And so the money will remain where it is?”
“Precisely; though I should think the man to whom it once belonged would turn in his grave, at the thought of the good it’s doing. This is the sort of thing that helps one to believe in an avenging angel, isn’t it?”