Old Hardy had always been secretive, for Dorothy had so reported. He had carried his will away with him on leaving Albany. It had not been stolen—so far as anyone could know. Coupled with all this was the fact that the dead man's hands' had been stained upon the knuckles—stained black, with a grimy something hard to wash away—perhaps the soot, the greasy, moldy old soot of a chimney, encountered in the act of secreting the will, and later only partially removed. It seemed as clear as crystal to the reasoning mind of Garrison as he hastened along on the road.
He passed the home of Scott, the inventor, and mentally jotted down a reminder that the man, being innocent, must be paid his insurance now without delay.
Mrs. Wilson was working in her garden, at the rear of the house, when Garrison arrived. She was wonderfully pleased to see him. She had read the papers—which Garrison had not—and discovered what a truly remarkable personage he was.
The credit of more than ordinarily clever work had been meted out by the columnful, and his name glared boldly from the vivid account of all he had done in the case. All this and more he found himself obliged to face at the hands of Mrs. Wilson, before he could manage to enter the house and go as before to Hardy's room.
It was just precisely as he had seen it on his former visit. It had not been rented since, partially on account of the fact that Hardy's fate had cast an evil shadow upon it.
Garrison lost no time in his search. He followed his theory. It led him straight to the fireplace, with its crudely painted board, built to occupy its opening. Behind this, he felt, should be the will.
The board was stuck. Mrs. Wilson hastened to her sitting-room to fetch a screwdriver back to pry it out. Garrison gave it a kick, at the bottom, in her absence, thus jarring it loose, and the top fell forward in his hand.
He put his hand far up, inside the chimney—and on a ledge of brick, where his knuckles picked up a coating of moldy, greasy soot, his fingers encountered an envelope and knocked it from its lodgment. It fell on the fender at the bottom of the place. He caught it up, only taking time to note a line, "Will of John Hardy," written upon it—and, cramming it into his pocket, thrust the board back into place as Mrs. Wilson entered at the door.
It was not with intent to deceive the good woman that he had thus abruptly decided to deny her the knowledge of his find, but rather as a sensible precaution against mere idle gossip, which could achieve no particular advantage.
Therefore when she pried the board from place, and nothing was discovered behind it, he thanked her profusely, made a wholly perfunctory examination of the room, and presently escaped.