“Sam,” said the lawyer, “I have work to do, and you must help me.”
“Count on me, Judge,” was the ready reply. “I don’t mind an all-night job once in a while, though I wouldn’t care for it as a steady diet. What’s next?”
They awakened the undertaker, Davis, the next thing, and after the lawyer had told him the story he at once hitched up a team to drive to the tomb for Mr. Eliot’s body. As the undertaker was also the liveryman, Mr. Ferguson obtained a single horse, harnessed to a roomy box-buggy, in which he and Sam Parsons followed the other rig. Arriving at the graveyard they held back while Davis took charge of the remains and loaded the body into the wagon, and not till he had driven away did the constable and the lawyer venture into the mausoleum, the door of which they had propped open to avoid the danger of being entombed alive.
The buggy was fairly loaded when all the treasure and the papers had been placed in it, and then they drove to the lawyer’s office, where they deposited the precious freight and Parsons watched beside it until morning.
Mr. Ferguson, meantime, got a couple of hours’ sleep; but he was back at the office by daybreak, and while waiting for the bank to open sent Sam to get his breakfast, while he himself began a systematic examination of the papers he had seized.
It did not take him long to discover that Jonathan Eliot had been a wealthy, if miserly, man. The government bonds and cash alone constituted a fortune, but aside from these were many mortgages and investments that drew a high rate of interest. There was no paper purporting to be a will; no letters of administration or any indication that the old man had transferred his holdings to Elaine Halliday, or to any other person. The deed of gift which Phœbe had seen was doubtless secreted upon the person of the housekeeper.
While the judge was thus absorbed in the papers the day advanced and Spaythe’s Bank was opened for business. Phil, arriving at his usual time, found Mr. Spaythe already in his office and the door communicating with the countingroom wide open.
Moreover, the banker seemed laboring under unusual excitement. He would walk the floor of his office with nervous strides, then seat himself in the chair by his desk, and a few moments later resume his pacing. At times he glanced into the room where Phil was at work, or toward the cage where the cashier was busy. Eric had not yet arrived.
Presently in came Judge Ferguson, accompanied by Sam Parsons, and both were loaded down with gold and bank notes.
“Good morning, Spaythe,” called the judge, nodding genially. “I want to make an important deposit, to be credited to the Estate of Jonathan Eliot.”