from his pocket.

"Here is a copy of the will," he said, "if Craig cares to examine it."

"Not now," I replied. "Let me hear the entire story first."

Vail leaned back in his chair, a cigar between his lips.

"The administrators," he went on, as though uninterrupted, and
repeating a set speech, "endeavored to locate young Henley, but failed.
Then Mr. Neale was sent here to make a personal search. He came to me
for aid, and legal advice. Finally we found the flat where the young
couple had lived. It was deserted, and we learned from neighbors that
they had quarreled, and the wife left him. We have been unable to
discover her whereabouts. She did not return to, or communicate with,
her own people in the West, or with any former friends in this city.
She simply disappeared, and we have some reason to believe committed
suicide. The body of a young woman, fitting her general description,
was taken from the river, and buried without identification."

"And young Henley?" I asked, as he paused.

"Henley," he continued gravely, "was at last located, under an assumed
name, as a prisoner in the Indiana penitentiary at Michigan City,
serving a sentence of fourteen years for forgery. He positively
refuses to identify himself as Philip Henley, and all our efforts to
gain him a pardon have failed."

"But what have I to do with all this?" I questioned, beginning to have
a faint glimmer of the truth.