THE WILL

I went to the Crawford house on the day of the funeral; but as I reached there somewhat earlier than the hour appointed, I went into the office with the idea of looking about for further clues.

In the office I found Gregory Hall; looking decidedly disturbed.

“I can’t find Mr. Crawford’s will,” he said, as he successively looked through one drawer after another.

“What!” I responded.  “Hasn’t that been located already?”

“No; it’s this way:  I didn’t see it here in this office, or in the New York office, so I assumed Mr. Randolph had it in his possession.  But it seems he thought it was here, all the time.  Only this morning we discovered our mutual error, and Mr. Randolph concluded it must be in Mr. Crawford’s safety deposit box at the bank in New York.  So Mr. Philip Crawford hurried through his administration papers—­he is to be executor of the estate—­and went in to get it from the bank.  But he has just returned with the word that it wasn’t there.  So we’ve no idea where it is.”

“Oh, well,” said I, “since he hadn’t yet made the new will he had in mind, everything belongs to Miss Lloyd.”

“That’s just the point,” said Hall, his face taking on a despairing look.  “If we don’t find that will, she gets nothing!”

“How’s that?” I said.

“Why, she’s really not related to the Crawfords.  She’s a niece of Joseph Crawford’s wife.  So in the absence of a will his property will all go to his brother Philip, who is his legal heir.”

“Oho!” I exclaimed.  “This is a new development.  But the will will turn up.”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure of it,” returned Hall, but his anxious face showed anything but confidence in his own words.

“But,” I went on, “didn’t Philip Crawford object to his brother’s giving all his fortune to Miss Lloyd?”

“It didn’t matter if he did.  Nobody could move Joseph Crawford’s determination.  And I fancy Philip didn’t make any great disturbance about it.  Of course, Mr. Joseph had a right to do as he chose with his own, and the will gave Philip a nice little sum, any way.  Not much, compared to the whole fortune, but, still, a generous bequest.”

“What does Mr. Randolph say?”

“He’s completely baffled.  He doesn’t know what to think.”

“Can it have been stolen?”

“Why, no; who would steal it?  I only fear he may have destroyed it because he expected to make a different one.  In that case, Florence is penniless, save for such bounty as Philip Crawford chooses to bestow on her.”

I didn’t like the tone in which Hall said this.  It was distinctly aggrieved, and gave the impression that Florence Lloyd, penniless, was of far less importance than Miss Lloyd, the heiress of her uncle’s millions.

“But he would doubtless provide properly for her,” I said.

“Oh, yes, properly.  But she would find herself in a very different position, dependent on his generosity, from what she would be as sole heir to her uncle’s fortune.”