An old man sat alone in the somber dining room of an ancient house. He was at a table, munching his food methodically. At times, he chuckled to himself. Something evidently amused him. The old man's expression was deceiving. The changing moods which passed over his features were mingled with signs of doddering senility and traces of uncanny shrewdness. His mutterings were coherent only to himself. They ceased suddenly as a middle-aged woman entered through a swinging door.
"Is there anything else, Mr. Chadwick?" she asked.
"No, Martha," said the old man, in a harsh voice. "I shall be finished with my meal, directly. Then you can go."
"I'll wash the dishes," said the woman. "That will only take me a few minutes. There'll be plenty of time for me to get home and cook dinner for the folks."
"You're a busy lady, Martha," chuckled the old man. "You're a good cook, too. The best I ever had!"
"Thank you, Mr. Chadwick. I'm glad to work for you. It's very convenient, sir, that you always take dinner at five o'clock in the afternoon. It's an early hour, sir, and if it wasn't for that -
well, I guess I couldn't get here. My own family has to eat, you know."
"One should dine a few hours before retiring," declared the old man. "It is an excellent habit. There are good habits as well as bad ones. I always retire early. Therefore, I dine early."
"Well, sir," said Martha, "you may be right. But when one has men folks coming home from work, that's when dinner has to be gotten ready. Half past six is our time. That goes on Saturdays, too. Let the others grumble if they want to; my husband works until half after five every weekday. He's the boss."
"He's a hard worker," commented the old man. "Henry Birch was always a hard-working man."
"Yes," replied the woman proudly, "but he likes good times, too. He's taking me to see a picture show, tonight. We're going in to Philadelphia."
"Why to Philadelphia?" queried Chadwick. "Chester is much closer by."
"Yes, but the pictures are much better in Philadelphia. We always go there on a Saturday night, Henry and I. We're always in time for the nine o'clock show."
The old man laughed as he arose from the table and walked slowly from the room. The woman, clearing the dishes from the table, shook her head as she heard him chortling from the stairway.
"A funny sort, Grant Chadwick is," she commented, half aloud. "Fussy, too — but it's not hard to work for him. Clean up house in the morning; cook a meal in the afternoon. Outside of that, he takes care of himself.
"Gets his own breakfast. Then I cook his dinner. He always makes out alone on Sundays, and I'm glad of it. Gives me one day away from this place. Spooky old house, too."
The woman resumed her soliloquy after she had carried the dishes to the pantry. There, engaged in washing the tableware, she added a few remarks to her former ones.
"It wasn't so bad around here when young Mr. Denby used to live in the place. A good sort, young Denby Chadwick. Put up with a lot of nonsense from the old man. Small wonder he moved out.
"He likes his old uncle, though — leastwise I reckon he does. Comes to see him once in a while. I wish he was here more often. He seems to liven the place."
The woman finished her work in a few minutes. She went into the front hall and called a good night up the stairs. There was no response, but she seemed to accept that as a matter of course. She went from the house, closing the front door behind her.
Upstairs, Grant Chadwick was dozing in an armchair. He always took a short nap after his frugal dinner.
Although he was a man of considerable wealth, neither his habitation nor its furnishings betrayed the fact. His house was a decadent building on the outskirts of the city of Chester, in a place called Eddystone, ten miles from Philadelphia. The house was isolated, the nearest buildings being some deserted shacks near the railroad.
Grant Chadwick liked solitude. He had retired from business years ago, and now derived an excellent income from certain holdings which he possessed. Yet he was miserly to the extreme, unwilling to part with anything he owned.
The furnishings of his home were not only cheap, they were inadequate. Only a few of the rooms were fit for occupancy. All of old Chadwick's wealth rested in safe-deposit vaults; and the great percentage of his income was hoarded away with his investments.
The old man awoke from his doze and nodded mechanically. He looked about the room in a solemn manner.
He did not know how long he had been asleep. He did not seem to care. There was no clock in the room. Grant Chadwick paid little attention to the passage of time.
Besides the bed and a few chairs, the room contained a battered desk, of the antiquated roll-top variety. Grant Chadwick, no longer sleepy, went to the desk and opened it. He began a slow and methodical inspection of the drawers.
Most of them were empty. Others contained an odd assortment of useless articles. But in one drawer, the old man discovered two objects for which he was searching. Both were sheets of paper — one small, the other large.
The old man laid the papers on the desk. Then, with a grunt of satisfaction, he prepared to retire. Soon he was garbed in nightgown and nightcap.
He walked back to the desk, took the papers, and carried them to the bed. There, he lighted an oil lamp that rested upon a crumbling dictionary placed upon a chair. He extinguished the other lights and climbed into the bed.
He slipped his hand beneath the pillow and drew forth an old-fashioned revolver. This weapon was the old man's safeguard against burglars. He had owned the gun for many years, but he had never had occasion to use it. Grant Chadwick's reputation for meagerness was the best protection that he could have asked. A sane robber would have tackled a dog kennel in preference to the decaying home of Grant Chadwick.
The old man began to examine the smaller of the two papers. As he leaned forward to bring it within the range of the low light, his lips began to mutter disdainfully.
Grant Chadwick preferred his own company to that of any other person; hence it was not strange that he should speak aloud when alone, for the only one with whom he conferred was himself.
"Two thousand dollars," he said. "Bah! An old fool — that is what I am. Interest on it, yes"
— his eyes gleamed at the thought — "but no security. The principal is as good as lost. Waiting -
that's what he's doing. Waiting. I know his game. I'll fix it — "
The old man's lips were moving, but he was not talking now. He laid the small slip of paper upon the dictionary and fumbled along the seat of the chair until he found a lead pencil.
Taking the large sheet of paper, he began to check off words which appeared upon it, in scrawly writing:
I, Ulysses Grant Chadwick, considering the uncertainty of this mortal life and being of sound mind and memory, do make and publish this my last will and testament, in manner and form following, that is to say -
There the old man stopped. He leaned back against the propped pillow, holding the paper in his scrawny hands.
"What will Cromwell say when he reads this!" he laughed. "What will he say! He used to tell me that I was the wisest man who ever came into his law office. Wise, because I have had the same will laying there for these twenty years. Now, what will he say!"
The old man looked at the paper. He could not read the written lines that he had inscribed beneath the opening paragraph, for his hands were in darkness.
Grant Chadwick's penchant for economy had restrained him from the extravagance of a reading table beside his bed. The lamp on the antiquated dictionary served the purpose of a reading light, but it stood too low for convenience. The ring of illumination about the chair was scarcely on a level with the bed. The old man began to stoop forward to hold the paper in the light; then he leaned back on the pillow and chuckled once more. Evidently, he knew the contents of the document. An actual perusal was unnecessary.
"It's his own doing," he said, aloud. "He's to blame. He's waiting, and he can continue to wait — after this. I, Ulysses Grant Chadwick" — he was repeating the opening paragraph of the will
— "I, Ulysses Grant Chadwick, considering the uncertainty of this mortal life — "
He paused and leered vacantly. He seemed to enjoy those words, for after a moment, the old man repeated them as though reciting to an imaginary audience.
"Considering the uncertainty of this mortal life. Ha — ha — ha — ha" — the laugh was convulsive — "the uncertainty of this mortal life! He'll consider it! More than I. Yes, more than — "
The old man stopped, a guttural sound emerging from his lips. Something had attracted his attention. He turned suddenly toward the lamp on the chair beside him. His gaze was turned downward. There, in the brightness, was a hand, its outstretched fingers reaching for the old revolver!
With a snarl, Grant Chadwick clutched for the weapon. His clawing action was too late.
The hand was ahead of him. The revolver was drawn in the other direction. The old man was weaponless. Fuming, he raised himself in the bed and stared into the gloom beyond the light. His shrewd eyes flashed with recognition of the pallid face he saw there.
A scream of rage came from the parched lips of Grant Chadwick. He leaned forward in a frenzy, babbling incoherently. He did not glance toward the metallic flash of the revolver as it gleamed in the light.
His eyes were staring at the face that had aroused his fury. His voice was rising to a cracked scream.
"You — you — " His exclamation was broken and incoherent. "You dare to come here!
You'll pay for this you'll — " A flash shot from the revolver. The old man, poised forward, toppled headlong. His head struck the edge of the chair. His body seemed drawn after it.
The long, skinny arms were spread, one along the floor, the other reaching up to the chair. The tassel of the nightcap lay in a straight line, away from the bed. A pool of blood was forming on the floor. Silence dominated as a man stooped over the inert form of Grant Chadwick. Satisfied that the old man was dead, the murderer laid the revolver on the floor beside the outstretched hand. The motionless fingers seemed clutching for the weapon — just as they had done in life. Soft footsteps shuffled toward the door. The murderer left as silently as he had come. Once more, Grant Chadwick was alone in his solitary room. But the two papers were gone. One had disappeared from the chair; the other from the bed.
The hand that had slain Grant Chadwick had plucked away the old man's documents!