ely as he had seen it on his former visit. It had
not been rented since, partially on account of the fact that Hardy's
fate had cast an evil shadow upon it.

Garrison lost no time in his search. He followed his theory. It led
him straight to the fireplace, with its crudely painted board, built to
occupy its opening. Behind this, he felt, should be the will.

The board was stuck. Mrs. Wilson hastened to her sitting-room to fetch
a screwdriver back to pry it out. Garrison gave it a kick, at the
bottom, in her absence, thus jarring it loose, and the top fell forward
in his hand.

He put his hand far up, inside the chimney--and on a ledge of brick,
where his knuckles picked up a coating of moldy, greasy soot, his
fingers encountered an envelope and knocked it from its lodgment. It
fell on the fender at the bottom of the place. He caught it up, only
taking time to note a line, "Will of John Hardy," written upon it--and,
cramming it into his pocket, thrust the board back into place as Mrs.
Wilson entered at the door.

It was not with intent to deceive the good woman that he had thus
abruptly decided to deny her the knowledge of his find, but rather as a
sensible precaution against mere idle gossip, which could achieve no
particular advantage.

Therefore when she pried the board from place, and nothing was
discovered behind it, he thanked her profusely, made a wholly
perfunctory examination of the room, and presently escaped.

Not until he found himself far from any house, on the road he was
treading to Branchville, did he think of removing the package from his
pocket. He found it then to be a plain white envelope indorsed with
this inscription:

Last will of John Hardy. To be opened after my death, and then by my
niece, Dorothy Fairfax, only.

Denied the knowledge whether it might mean fortune or poverty to the
girl he loved, and feeling that, after all, his labors might heap great
unearned rewards on Fairfax, bestowing on himself the mere hollow
consciousness that his work had been well performed, he was presently
seated once more in a train that roared its way down to New York.

There was still an hour left of the morning when he alighted at the
Grand Central Station. He went at once to Dorothy's latest abode.

She was out. The landlady knew nothing whatever of her whereabouts.
Impatient of every delay, and eager to know not only the contents of
the will, but what it might mean to have Dorothy go