“But it’s not there at all; it’s here,” said Watson.
In breathless silence he rose and walked to the fireplace. Reaching up, he turned the portrait of Sir James from the wall. Behind was the oak panelling. Sliding a panel back he put his hand and drew out some papers, and brought them to the light.
One was a dusty envelope, tied and sealed. The other was new.
Picking up the first, Watson said with some emotion:
“When we had our last interview in this room, before I went to South America, my father told me he had made a will cutting me completely out, and had left this with Mr. Allery. Isn’t that so?”
“That is quite correct,” said Allery. “I tried to persuade him not to do so, in spite of the opinion I then had of you, but he would not make any change.”
“Well, he told me here, he had made another dated after that. He said, ‘I am going to hide it here. No one knows of the existence of this place, and I am placing you on your honour. If you come back having redeemed your character, and with a clear conscience, I will bring out this will, if I am alive. If I am dead you can produce it, if you think you have made good.’ He was a strange man and had curious ideas, but he was absolutely just.”
“That accounts for the Will he made some little time ago, bringing you back,” said Allery. “I see it all now.”
“But the other document?” said Sinclair impatiently. “Of course we supposed it was in the London house. I thought he would have it with him, and so did Collins, evidently.”
Watson picked up the envelope, and broke the seal.