The manager himself very civilly accompanied us, directing us to summon a servant, when we had examined things to our satisfaction, and to give orders about packing and removal.

I must confess that I had not altogether given up hope of discovering the lost document among the clothes and packing-cases.  But my anticipations were dispelled when we entered.  Everything had been neatly folded and placed on the bed and the two tables; it was evident that no document could have been passed unnoticed.  The room, too, was quite clean and in order.  Val, like myself, seemed rather depressed at the state of things.  There was no receptacle where any paper could have been stowed away that had not been thoroughly ransacked by the lawyer’s men, whose interest it was to discover the will.  A wardrobe for hanging clothes, a chest of drawers, dressing-table, and washstand were the only articles of furniture besides bed, tables, and chairs; none of them looked like possible receptacles of a hidden paper.

Scarcely realizing what I did, I began opening one after another the drawers in the chest.  Each was neatly lined with paper, but otherwise empty.  As though possessed by a mania for searching, I took out each paper and carefully assured myself that nothing had slipped underneath.  Val, roused by my action, began to poke into the drawers of the dressing-table; but his search was just as fruitless.  There was nothing to be done but to settle as to the packing of the clothes and take our departure.

Suddenly an idea struck me.  How often does a small article get lost in a chest of drawers by slipping behind the drawers themselves.  At once I acted on the suggestion.  I did not watt to consider that others had probably searched as thoroughly as I could do.  Out came the drawers, one after the other, and were deposited on the floor.  The bottom drawer was rather tight, and would not come out easily; but I got it out with an extra expenditure of muscle.  Positively, there was a small folded paper—­like a letter—­lying behind it; my heart sank, for it was too small for such a document as I was anxious to find.  I picked it up listlessly and unfolded it.

“By Jove, Val!  Here it is!” I cried exultantly.

He skipped across the room to read the paper over my shoulder.

“That’s it, all right!” was his exclamation.  “Thank God!”

It was but a sheet of common note-paper, bearing the printed heading of the hotel.  Across it was written in shaky characters the following: 

“This is the last will and testament of me, Alexander Gowan, of 269 Heniker Street, Chicago, U. S. A. I revoke all former testaments, and hereby bequeath the whole of the property of which I die possessed to Rev. Valentine Fleming of Ardmuirland, Scotland, in trust for Christian McRae, widow of Donald Logan, of Ardmuirland, and her children.

“ALEXANDER JOHN GOWAN.

“May 16, 1912.”