“Then you benefit by the signing of that codicil?”
“Certainly; what then?”
“Chichester Barnard can easily retaliate by charging you with using undue influence in persuading his aunt to revoke her bequest to him.” The Admiral choked with wrath. “One hundred thousand dollars—um!—men have done much to gain that sum. How do I know you haven’t trumped up this codicil charge against Marjorie Langdon as a means to break the will?”
“D—mn my soul!” stormed the Admiral, getting back his breath. “D’ye think I’m a dirty blackguard? My lawyer, Alvord, who drew up the codicil on October 31, is waiting to see me; come on in and interview him now.”
“Where do you live?”
“In that house on the corner.” As Duncan’s gaze swept over the unpretentious red-brick, stone-trimmed residence, his eyes encountered those of a darky butler who was anxiously regarding them from the open doorway. The chords of memory were touched, and a mental picture rose before Duncan’s eyes. Abruptly he swung back to the Admiral.
“You say the codicil was drawn and signed on October 31; when did you first discover its loss?”
“The morning of November first....”
“Let us go in and see Alvord,” interrupted Duncan, a strange light in his eyes. Without further words the Admiral led the way to the English basement house.
“Mr. Alvord’s been awaitin’ mos’ an hour, suh,” explained the butler, assisting them off with their overcoats. “He axed me ter watch out an’ ax yo’ ter hurry, ’cause he’s awful busy.”