“There were two witnesses swearing positively that old Brooks’ will was in Mr. Wethered’s keeping when that gentleman left the Fitzwilliam mansion at a quarter past four.  At five o’clock in the afternoon the lawyer was found dead in Phoenix Park.  Between a quarter past four and eight o’clock in the evening Percival Brooks never left the house—­that was subsequently proved by Oranmore up to the hilt and beyond a doubt.  Since the will found under old Brooks’ pillow was a forged will, where then was the will he did make, and which Wethered carried away with him in his pocket?”

“Stolen, of course,” said Polly, “by those who murdered and robbed him; it may have been of no value to them, but they naturally would destroy it, lest it might prove a clue against them.”

“Then you think it was mere coincidence?” he asked excitedly.

“What?”

“That Wethered was murdered and robbed at the very moment that he carried the will in his pocket, whilst another was being forged in its place?”

“It certainly would be very curious, if it were a coincidence,” she said musingly.

“Very,” he repeated with biting sarcasm, whilst nervously his bony fingers played with the inevitable bit of string.  “Very curious indeed.  Just think of the whole thing.  There was the old man with all his wealth, and two sons, one to whom he is devoted, and the other with whom he does nothing but quarrel.  One day there is another of these quarrels, but more violent, more terrible than any that have previously occurred, with the result that the father, heartbroken by it all, has an attack of apoplexy and practically dies of a broken heart.  After that he alters his will, and subsequently a will is proved which turns out to be a forgery.

“Now everybody—­police, press, and public alike—­at once jump to the conclusion that, as Percival Brooks benefits by that forged will, Percival Brooks must be the forger.”

“Seek for him whom the crime benefits, is your own axiom,” argued the girl.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Percival Brooks benefited to the tune of L2,000,000.”

“I beg your pardon.  He did nothing of the sort.  He was left with less than half the share that his younger brother inherited.”

“Now, yes; but that was a former will and—­”

“And that forged will was so clumsily executed, the signature so carelessly imitated, that the forgery was bound to come to light.  Did that never strike you?”

“Yes, but—­”

“There is no but,” he interrupted.  “It was all as clear as daylight to me from the very first.  The quarrel with the old man, which broke his heart, was not with his eldest son, with whom he was used to quarrelling, but with the second son whom he idolised, in whom he believed.  Don’t you remember how John O’Neill heard the words ‘liar’ and ‘deceit’?  Percival Brooks had never deceived his father.  His sins were all on the surface.  Murray had led a quiet life, had pandered to his father, and fawned upon him, until, like most hypocrites, he at last got found out.  Who knows what ugly gambling debt or debt of honour, suddenly revealed to old Brooks, was the cause of that last and deadly quarrel?