Garrison knew it, and instantly concluded that the young man before him could hardly have stolen the uncle's second will. But he had no time for ramifying inquiries. He pushed his visitor toward the elevator and only answered with more urging for speed.
He returned to the office, tearing off the wrapper from his picture as he went. He glanced at it once before he opened the door. It was Wicks—not so bald—not so aggressive of aspect, but Wicks beyond the shadow of a doubt. On the back was written "Hiram Cleave."
Wicks turned upon him as he entered.
"I can't wait here all day while you conduct your business in the hall," he said. "Who was the man outside?"
Garrison had grown singularly calm.
"That," he said, "was Foster Durgin."
"And you let him get away?" cried Wicks wrathfully. "Mr. Garrison——"
Garrison interrupted curtly.
"I took your advice and sent him to get the police. Good joke, isn't it, to have him summon the officers to arrest the man who murdered his uncle?"
Wicks had an intuition or a fear. He stared at Garrison wildly.
Garrison remained by the door.