by Kenneth B. Pritchard
My friend, Frederick Brown, and I are lawyers. Lawyers often come up against strange cases; but the case that Brown had a while ago, was the oddest and by far the most weird I have ever heard of.
Brown and I were lunching together one noon, when the subject was broached of the peculiar things that one sometimes meets up with.
"James," said Fred, "You never had anything happen to you that can compare with a certain case of mine; I'll wager on it."
"Shoot," I said. "Let's have an earful. What's it all about?"
"I had a legacy," he began without hesitation, "a few weeks ago, that was void to all concerned unless it was signed by one man. All others involved had attached their signatures to the documents. But, Ogleman's—that was his name—was missing."
"You mean the Ogleman that died a short time ago?" I broke in.
"The same," Brown admonished. "I must hasten to add," he went on, "that a time limit was set, on this certain day, in which the signatures must be obtained. Ogleman was not in town.
"The final limit was set for 8 P. M. For days, before the last one arrived, my client had me sending out feelers in all directions trying to contact this one man. The evening before the final day, I at last got in touch with him, and he promised to come without delay. He wired back that he would leave in the morning as he was situated in a place where transportation facilities were not the best. All I could do then, was wait.
"Ten o'clock the next morning I received a telegram. Ogleman had been struck by a speeding auto. But as I read further, I realized that the man would arrive anyway. His condition I did not know, as the message had imparted no more than the two facts I've already given.