“I can explain it, Doctor Keyes,” declared Howard Wycliff. “It dates back to the beginning of my father’s illness. When you pronounced his ailment as thrombosis and stated frankly that it carried the danger of sudden death, my father sent for Mr. Slader. He told him then that he wanted him to be close at hand; that he had certain important papers which must be given to me in case of his death.
“After my father recovered from his first alarm, he refused to discuss the matter further. Mr. Slader and Mr. Marchelle have paid regular visits; each time, my father puts off the subject. He has declared only that he possesses assets which he does not care to reveal until death actually threatens. He will say no more. He will not even specify what those assets are.”
Doctor Keyes nodded. He looked toward Garrett Slader, and the old lawyer motioned for Howard Wycliff to continue.
“My father’s known assets,” resumed Howard, “are in safe-deposit vaults. His will is made. It is in Mr. Slader’s safe. Except for a few minor legacies to cousins of mine, the entire estate will come to me. Mr. Slader, therefore, persists that I should know exactly what other assets exit, and where they may be found.”
“Certainly,” agreed Doctor Keyes. “But your father’s condition must also be considered. I can see how constant annoyance will not only turn his mind to concealment, but will also have a marked effect in delaying his recovery of health.”
“His condition may mean death!” warned Garrett Slader. “I am protecting his interests and those of his son!”
“Mr. Slader’s viewpoint is justifiable,” assured Paul Marchelle. “At the same time, Doctor Keyes, I feel that your opinion is highly important. I have recommended that we be less persistent in our efforts—”
“Preposterous!” exclaimed Slader. “Paul, you do not know our client as well as I do. Cyril Wycliff relies upon my advice. He will eventually come to his senses.”
Doctor Keyes was thoughtful. Silently, he nudged his thumb toward the doorway. Howard Wycliff understood the motion and shook his head.
“I don’t think Miles Vorber can help us,” he declared, in a low tone. “He has been my father’s servant for many years. He has always gone about his duties in a steady fashion, but my father has never confided in him.”
“He is a suspicious type of individual,” commented Slader. “I think that your father has been unwise to keep him here.”
“Just part of father’s policy, I suppose,” returned Howard. “He always kept his affairs to himself. Vorber knows that; I imagine that he thinks it his duty to watch everyone.”
The conversation ended as Vorber’s footsteps were heard in the hallway. The old servant entered and faced Howard Wycliff.
“Are there any more orders tonight, sir?” he inquired.
“None,” said Howard.
Vorber turned. His face was sour as he turned his eyes toward each of the other men present. The servant’s attitude, as Slader had stated, was one that betokened constant suspicion.
There was a lull as Vorber left the library. The servant’s footsteps sounded on the bottom steps of the stairs. Howard Wycliff began to speak. The words ended before they reached his lips. All present sprang to their feet.
A long, wailing scream had come from upstairs; from the direction of Cyril Wycliff’s bedroom. Howard Wycliff dashed toward the door. Paul Marchelle was close behind him. Doctor Keyes and Garrett Slader followed.
Vorber, showing surprising agility for one of his age, outpaced the younger men in the race up the stairs. Cyril Wycliff’s shrieks were horrifying. Vorber shoved open the bedroom door and flashed on the light. He sprang toward the bed as Howard Wycliff and Paul Marchelle arrived.
CYRIL WYCLIFF was sitting upright. His face was purplish. He was clawing his temples with his hands. The patient seemed bursting with a terrific attack of some unexpected fever. Another shriek came from his lips. He sank back, writhing, as Doctor Keyes and Garrett Slader reached the room.
The physician sprang to the patient’s side. Cyril Wycliff did not notice him. His eyes were upon Howard and the lawyers. They did not even appear to notice Miles Vorber, who had moved to the other side of the bed to make way for Doctor Keyes.
“I am dying!” blurted Cyril Wycliff. He clutched at his heart. “Quick! Before I die! Quick, Howard!”
As his son leaned forward, Cyril Wycliff gasped again, in words that all could hear.
“The deed! The deed!” he exclaimed hoarsely. “Find it! Bring it here! It is — it is—”
A pause, while Cyril Wycliff seemed to lose strength. Howard Wycliff was eager to hear his father’s words. Miles Vorber was staring straight at the stricken man’s lips. Garrett Slader and Paul Marchelle were listening, while Doctor Barton Keyes made efforts to counteract the fit which had swept over his patient.
“The deed” — Cyril Wycliff’s words came slowly — “in the library — in the — in the—”
The words ended with a scream. Cyril Wycliff raised himself and flung his arms wide. Then, with a tremendous surge of effort, he sought to complete his statement, but failed. He collapsed, gurgling, upon the pillows.
The crimson tinge faded from the stricken man’s face. Cyril Wycliff’s parched lips spread; thereafter, they moved no more. Doctor Keyes arose to face the men who gazed at him with deep concern.
“He is dead,” pronounced the physician.
No response came from the stunned group. Despite the warning that sudden death might be the lot of Cyril Wycliff, none had expected so rapid a demise. Only tonight, Wycliff had appeared well on the road to complete recovery.
Howard Wycliff bowed his head. His father’s death was a shock to the young man. Miles Vorber, the old servant, never moved from the opposite side of the bed. His narrowed eyes surveyed the other men, as though seeking to detect their reactions. It was evident that Vorber’s alertness was due to the dying words that Cyril Wycliff had uttered.
Old Garrett Slader shrugged his shoulders. To the attorney, this occurrence stood as proof that his ideas had been correct; that Cyril Wycliff should long ago have given the information which he had refused to divulge until his death.
Paul Marchelle, however, did not share his associate’s feelings. He stepped forward and placed his hand upon Howard Wycliff’s shoulder. With friendly comfort, he remained there; then, sensing that the shock had passed, he led Howard from the room.
IT was a strained group that assembled in the library a short while later. Howard Wycliff, partially recovered from the blow which had come with his father’s passing, faced the two attorneys and tried to recall the final words that he had heard.
“A deed,” remarked the young man. “My father spoke of it as he was dying. A deed, here in this library. Somewhere in this room.”
“We shall have to institute a search,” decided old Garrett Slader. “In the meantime, I would suggest that this room be kept locked.”
“A wise idea,” agreed Paul Marchelle.
“Your father bought much property,” asserted Slader, as he turned to Howard Wycliff. “He had a remarkable ability for purchasing real estate. You can be sure that the deed is valuable. It must be found.”
Miles Vorber came solemnly into the room. Howard Wycliff beckoned to the old servant and questioned if he knew of any possible hiding place in the library. Vorber solemnly shook his head.
“I know of no hiding place, sir,” was all he said.
Doctor Keyes entered while the servant was speaking. The portly physician seemed dejected. He shook his head sadly, as though he could not understand the sudden end that had come to Cyril Wycliff.
“One can never be sure,” he declared. “Thrombosis, despite the counteracting efforts which we employ, is always apt to gain its end. Coming so soon upon Doctor Arberg’s visit, this death is all the more unfortunate.”
“The new injections,” suggested Paul Marchelle. “They could not possibly have caused the change?”
“No,” decided Doctor Keyes. “They were wisely calculated by Doctor Arberg’s own direction. They were designed to strengthen the patient, not to render him more susceptible to the attack which occurred.”
The doctor’s verdict was accepted. Keyes stepped into the hallway and picked up a telephone. He held the instrument for a short while; then replaced it and came back into the library.
“I was going to call Doctor Arberg,” he stated. “The hour, however, is too late. There is nothing now that he can do. I shall make out the death certificate, stating that Cyril Wycliff succumbed as the result of thrombosis.”