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 over and Stephen Mortover and I appoint them joint executors of this my will.

That was plain enough, thought Wedgwood—whatever quarrel there had been between Matthew Mortover and his father, the old man had forgotten or overlooked it, and had remembered the elder son who had gone away as equal beneficiary with the younger who had stayed at home. He glanced at the date of the will—it had been made some years after Matthew's departure from England to Canada—possibly, Matthew and his father had been in friendly communication. As to whether that supposition was correct, the detective knew nothing: what he did know was that Matthew was dead, and Stephen was dead. And in their place stood Matthew's daughter, the girl Avice, and Stephen's son, the young man Philip, each entitled to one-half of what, by the recent discovery of coal, had become a valuable property, how valuable, perhaps, none concerned in its development yet knew.

Wedgwood put the will safely away in his pocket-book, and marking the place in the old volume at which he had found it, put the volume itself aside. Then, reflecting that there might be an unusually hard and trying day before him on the morrow, and that it would be