“As to that, Mr. Craye,” he answered, “Mr. Parslewe’s closed my lips! But he’s a gentleman of his word, and after what he said to me, I’d no choice, sir, no choice at all, but to fall in with his suggestion that the document should be handed over to him. I couldn’t do anything else—after what he told me. But as to what he told me—mum is the word, Mr. Craye!—mum! At present.”
“Have you any idea what that document is?” I asked, going at last straight to a principal point.
“None!” he replied quickly. “But—I’ve a very good idea!”
“What, then?” I put it to him. “I’d give a good deal to know.”
He glanced round, as if he feared to be overheard, though there was no one near us.
“Well,” he said. “Have you heard of an old gentleman named Palkeney, Mr. Matthew Palkeney, of Palkeney Manor, away there in the Midlands, who died some little time ago, leaving money and a fine place and no relatives, and from whose library that copper box and those books were undoubtedly stolen?”
“I’ve heard of him—and of the rest,” I replied.
“Just so,” he said. “Well, Mr. Craye, between you and me, it’s my belief that the document Mr. Parslewe got from Bickerdale last night—or, rather, early this morning—was neither more nor less than Mr. Matthew Palkeney’s will, which the old fellow—a queer old stick!—had hidden in that copper box! That’s what I think!”
“Is it known that he made any will?” I asked.
“In the ordinary way, no,” he answered. “But things come out. This would have come out before, but for the slowness of country folk to tell anything. Sperrigoes, as the old gentleman’s solicitors, have never been able to find any will, or trace of any. But recently—quite recently—they’ve come across this—a couple of men on the estate, one a woodman, the other a gamekeeper, have come forward to say that some time ago they set their names to a paper which they saw their old master sign his name to. What’s that but a will, Mr. Craye? Come!”