He did not know how long he had been asleep. He did not seem to care. There was no clock in the room. Grant Chadwick paid little attention to the passage of time.
Besides the bed and a few chairs, the room contained a battered desk, of the antiquated roll-top variety. Grant Chadwick, no longer sleepy, went to the desk and opened it. He began a slow and methodical inspection of the drawers.
Most of them were empty. Others contained an odd assortment of useless articles. But in one drawer, the old man discovered two objects for which he was searching. Both were sheets of paper — one small, the other large.
The old man laid the papers on the desk. Then, with a grunt of satisfaction, he prepared to retire. Soon he was garbed in nightgown and nightcap.
He walked back to the desk, took the papers, and carried them to the bed. There, he lighted an oil lamp that rested upon a crumbling dictionary placed upon a chair. He extinguished the other lights and climbed into the bed.
He slipped his hand beneath the pillow and drew forth an old-fashioned revolver. This weapon was the old man's safeguard against burglars. He had owned the gun for many years, but he had never had occasion to use it. Grant Chadwick's reputation for meagerness was the best protection that he could have asked. A sane robber would have tackled a dog kennel in preference to the decaying home of Grant Chadwick.
The old man began to examine the smaller of the two papers. As he leaned forward to bring it within the range of the low light, his lips began to mutter disdainfully.
Grant Chadwick preferred his own company to that of any other person; hence it was not strange that he should speak aloud when alone, for the only one with whom he conferred was himself.
"Two thousand dollars," he said. "Bah! An old fool — that is what I am. Interest on it, yes"
— his eyes gleamed at the thought — "but no security. The principal is as good as lost. Waiting -
that's what he's doing. Waiting. I know his game. I'll fix it — "
The old man's lips were moving, but he was not talking now. He laid the small slip of paper upon the dictionary and fumbled along the seat of the chair until he found a lead pencil.
Taking the large sheet of paper, he began to check off words which appeared upon it, in scrawly writing:
I, Ulysses Grant Chadwick, considering the uncertainty of this mortal life and being of sound mind and memory, do make and publish this my last will and testament, in manner and form following, that is to say -
There the old man stopped. He leaned back against the propped pillow, holding the paper in his scrawny hands.
"What will Cromwell say when he reads this!" he laughed. "What will he say! He used to tell me that I was the wisest man who ever came into his law office. Wise, because I have had the same will laying there for these twenty years. Now, what will he say!"
The old man looked at the paper. He could not read the written lines that he had inscribed beneath the opening paragraph, for his hands were in darkness.
Grant Chadwick's penchant for economy had restrained him from the extravagance of a reading table beside his bed. The lamp on the antiquated dictionary served the purpose of a reading light, but it stood too low for convenience. The ring of illumination about the chair was scarcely on a level with the bed. The old man began to stoop forward to hold the paper in the light; then he leaned back on the pillow and chuckled once more. Evidently, he knew the contents of the document. An actual perusal was unnecessary.
"It's his own doing," he said, aloud. "He's to blame. He's waiting, and he can continue to wait — after this. I, Ulysses Grant Chadwick" — he was repeating the opening paragraph of the will
— "I, Ulysses Grant Chadwick, considering the uncertainty of this mortal life — "
He paused and leered vacantly. He seemed to enjoy those words, for after a moment, the old man repeated them as though reciting to an imaginary audience.
"Considering the uncertainty of this mortal life. Ha — ha — ha — ha" — the laugh was convulsive — "the uncertainty of this mortal life! He'll consider it! More than I. Yes, more than — "
The old man stopped, a guttural sound emerging from his lips. Something had attracted his attention. He turned suddenly toward the lamp on the chair beside him. His gaze was turned downward. There, in the brightness, was a hand, its outstretched fingers reaching for the old revolver!
With a snarl, Grant Chadwick clutched for the weapon. His clawing action was too late.
The hand was ahead of him. The revolver was drawn in the other direction. The old man was weaponless. Fuming, he raised himself in the bed and stared into the gloom beyond the light. His shrewd eyes flashed with recognition of the pallid face he saw there.
A scream of rage came from the parched lips of Grant Chadwick. He leaned forward in a frenzy, babbling incoherently. He did not glance toward the metallic flash of the revolver as it gleamed in the light.
His eyes were staring at the face that had aroused his fury. His voice was rising to a cracked scream.
"You — you — " His exclamation was broken and incoherent. "You dare to come here!
You'll pay for this you'll — " A flash shot from the revolver. The old man, poised forward, toppled headlong. His head struck the edge of the chair. His body seemed drawn after it.
The long, skinny arms were spread, one along the floor, the other reaching up to the chair. The tassel of the nightcap lay in a straight line, away from the bed. A pool of blood was forming on the floor. Silence dominated as a man stooped over the inert form of Grant Chadwick. Satisfied that the old man was dead, the murderer laid the revolver on the floor beside the outstretched hand. The motionless fingers seemed clutching for the weapon — just as they had done in life. Soft footsteps shuffled toward the door. The murderer left as silently as he had come. Once more, Grant Chadwick was alone in his solitary room. But the two papers were gone. One had disappeared from the chair; the other from the bed.
The hand that had slain Grant Chadwick had plucked away the old man's documents!
Chapter VIII — The Death Unsolved
"Thank you, Mr. Chadwick. We appreciate the cooperation that you have given us." The speaker was a tall, gaunt man, whose face showed marks of weariness. He formed the central figure of a group assembled in the office of a county courthouse. The corner of a silver badge peered from beneath his coat, proclaiming him a detective.
"I'm glad to help you in any way, Mr. Davidson," replied the young man who had been addressed as Chadwick. "It — it was rather a surprise to have you quiz me the way you did — so soon after the shock of my uncle's death. It was — "
"It was necessary," interrupted Davidson. "It should at least assure you that we intend to use every effort in solving this murder case. I am sorry to have inconvenienced you and these other persons, but it was my duty."
"There's some reporters outside, chief," said a man from the door. "Shall I tell them you'll see them later on?"
"Perhaps you would like to hear me talk to them now," suggested Davidson, turning to Chadwick.
"Well" — the young man spoke uncertainly, then began to nod — "I guess it would be best.
Yes, it would be best." The reporters tramped into the room and looked at the group of men and women assembled there. They turned to Davidson for an explanation.
It was forthcoming. The detective spoke in a methodical tone, indicating individuals as he discussed them.
"This is Denby Chadwick," he explained, pointing out the young man. Chadwick, solemn-faced, nodded in corroboration. The reporters noted his neat attire and his weary look.
"Chadwick," said Davidson, "is the only relative of the murdered man. Grant Chadwick was his uncle. Denby Chadwick is the branch manager of the Mayo Safe Lock Co. He has charge of the Philadelphia office.