dale last night—or, rather, early this morning—was neither more nor less than Mr. Matthew Palkeney's will, which the old fellow—a queer old stick!—had hidden in that copper box! That's what I think!"
"Is it known that he made any will?" I asked.
"In the ordinary way, no," he answered. "But things come out. This would have come out before, but for the slowness of country folk to tell anything. Sperrigoes, as the old gentleman's solicitors, have never been able to find any will, or trace of any. But recently—quite recently—they've come across this—a couple of men on the estate, one a woodman, the other a gamekeeper, have come forward to say that some time ago they set their names to a paper which they saw their old master sign his name to. What's that but a will, Mr. Craye? Come!"
"It sounds like it," I agreed. "And you think that it was that that Mr. Parslewe recovered last night?"
"I do," he answered. "For I've heard—Sir Charles told me himself—that when the old man was struck down and lay dying, all
