The Complete Works of Arthur Morrison (Illustrated). Arthur Morrison

into the many volumes of Transactions of the Psychical Research Society, with an occasional by-excursion into mental telepathy and theosophy; the last, a thing whereof my Philistine intelligence obstinately refused to make head or tail.

      It was while these things were occupying part of my attention that I chanced to ask Hewitt whether, in the course of his divers odd and out-of-the-way experiences, he had met with any such weird adventures as were detailed in such profusion in the books of “authenticated” spooks, doppelgangers, poltergeists, clairvoyance, and so forth.

      “Well,” Hewitt answered, with reflection, “I haven’t been such a wallower in the uncanny as some of the worthy people who talk at large in those books of yours, and, as a matter of fact, my little adventures, curious as some of them may seem, have been on the whole of the most solid and matter-of-fact description. One or two things have happened that perhaps your ‘psychical’ people might be interested in, but they’ve mostly been found to be capable of a disappointingly simple explanation. One case of some genuine psychological interest, however, I have had; although there’s nothing even in that which isn’t a matter of well-known scientific possibility.” And he proceeded to tell me the story that I have set down here, as well as I can, from recollection.

      I think I have already said, in another place, that Hewitt’s professional start as a private investigator dated from his connection with the famous will case of Bartley v. Bartley and others, in which his then principals, Messrs. Crellan, Hunt & Crellan, chiefly through his exertions established their extremely high reputation as solicitors. It was ten years or so after this case that Mr. Crellan senior — the head of the firm — retired into private life, and by an odd chance Hewitt’s first meeting with him after that event was occasioned by another will difficulty.

      These were the terms of the telegram that brought Hewitt again into personal relations with his old principal:—

      “Can you run down at once on a matter of private business? I will be at Guildford to meet eleven thirty-five from Waterloo. If later or prevented please wire. Crellan.”

      The day and the state of Hewitt’s engagements suited, and there was full half an hour to catch the train. Taking, therefore, the small travelling-bag that always stood ready packed in case of any sudden excursion that presented the possibility of a night from home, he got early to Waterloo, and by half-past twelve was alighting at Guildford Station. Mr. Crellan, a hale, white-haired old gentleman, wearing gold-rimmed spectacles, was waiting with a covered carriage.

      “How d’ye do, Mr. Hewitt, how d’ye do?” the old gentleman exclaimed as soon as they met, grasping Hewitt’s hand, and hurrying him toward the carriage. “I’m glad you’ve come, very glad. It isn’t raining, and you might have preferred something more open, but I brought the brougham because I want to talk privately. I’ve been vegetating to such an extent for the last few years down here that any little occurrence out of the ordinary excites me, and I’m sure I couldn’t have kept quiet till we had got indoors. It’s been bad enough, keeping the thing to myself, already.”

      The door shut, and the brougham started. Mr. Crellan laid his hand on Hewitt’s knee, “I hope,” he said, “I haven’t dragged you away from any important business?”

      “No,” Hewitt replied, “you have chosen a most excellent time. Indeed, I did think of making a small holiday to-day, but your telegram ”

      “Yes, yes. Do you know, I was almost ashamed of having sent it after it had gone. Because, after all, the matter is, probably, really a very simple sort of affair that you can’t possibly help me in. A few years ago I should have thought nothing of it, nothing at all. But as I have told you, I’ve got into such a dull, vegetable state of mind since I retired and have nothing to do that a little thing upsets me, and I haven’t mental energy enough to make up my mind to go to dinner sometimes. But you’re an old friend, and I’m sure you’ll forgive my dragging you all down here on a matter that will, perhaps, seem ridiculously simple to you, a man in the thick of active business. If I hadn’t known you so well I wouldn’t have had the impudence to bother you. But never mind all that. I’ll tell you.

      “Do you ever remember my speaking of an intimate friend, a Mr. Holford? No. Well, it’s a long time ago, and perhaps I never happened to mention him. He was a most excellent man — old fellow, like me, you know; two or three years older, as a matter of fact. We were chums many years ago; in fact, we lodged in the same house when I was an articled clerk and he was a student at Guy’s. He retired from the medical profession early, having come into a fortune, and came down here to live at the house we’re going to; as a matter of fact, Wedbury Hall.

      “When I retired I came down and took up my quarters not far off, and we were a very excellent pair of old chums till last Monday — the day before yesterday — when my poor old friend died.. He was pretty well in years — seventy-three — and a man can’t live for ever. But I assure you it has upset me terribly, made a greater fool of me than ever, in fact, just when I ought to have my wits about me.

      “The reason I particularly want my wits just now, and the reason I have requisitioned yours, is this: that I can’t find poor old Holford’s will. I drew it up for him years ago, and by it I was appointed his sole executor. I am perfectly convinced that he cannot have destroyed it, because he told me everything concerning his affairs. I have always been his only adviser, in fact, and I’m sure he would have consulted me as to any change in his testamentary intentions before he made it. Moreover, there are reasons why I know he could not have wished to die intestate.”

      “Which are?” queried Hewitt as Mr. Crellan paused in his statement.

      “Which are these: Holford was a widower, with no children of his own. His wife, who has been dead nearly fifteen years now, was a most excellent woman, a model wife, and would have been a model mother if she had been one at all. As it was she adopted a little girl, a poor little soul who was left an orphan at two years of age. The child’s father, an unsuccessful man of business of the name of Garth, maddened by a sudden and ruinous loss, committed suicide, and his wife died of the shock occasioned by the calamity.

      “The child, as I have said, was taken by Mrs. Holford and made a daughter of, and my old friend’s daughter she has been ever since, practically speaking. The poor old fellow couldn’t possibly have been more attached to a daughter of his own, and on her part she couldn’t possibly have been a better daughter than she was. She stuck by him night and day during his last illness, until she became rather ill herself, although of course there was a regular nurse always in attendance.

      “Now, in his will, Mr. Holford bequeathed rather more than half of his very large property to this Miss Garth; that is to say, as residuary legatee, her interest in the will came to about that. The rest was distributed in various ways. Holford had largely spent the leisure of his retirement in scientific pursuits. So there were a few legacies to learned societies; all his servants were remembered; he left me a certain number of his books; and there was a very fair sum of money for his nephew, Mr. Cranley Mellis, the only near relation of Mr. Holford’s still living. So that you see what the loss of this will may mean. Miss Garth, who was to have taken the greater part of her adoptive father’s property, will not have one shilling’s worth of claim on the estate and will be turned out into the world without a cent. One or two very old servants will be very awkwardly placed, too, with nothing to live on, and very little prospect of doing more work.”

      “Everything will go to this nephew,” said Hewitt, “of course?”

      “Of course. That is unless I attempt to prove a rough copy of the will which I may possibly have by me. But even if I have such a thing and find it, long and costly litigation would be called for, and the result would probably be all against us.”

      “You say you feel sure Mr. Holford did not destroy the will himself?”

      “I am quite sure he would never have done so without telling me of it; indeed, I am sure he would have consulted me first. Moreover, it can never have been his intention to leave Miss Garth utterly unprovided for; it would be the same thing as disinheriting his only daughter.”

      “Did you see him frequently?”