George White was a skillful penman—at one time he had been a bookkeeper—and he had no difficulty in drafting a will which might easily have passed for the genuine last will and testament of Simon Dodge.

It was shown to Mr. and Mrs. Brackett, and both were well satisfied with it.

“I guess this will make you all right, Jeremiah,” said White. “It’ll be worth a good deal of money to you.”

“You’re a master hand at the pen, George,” said Brackett, admiringly. “Nobody will know this from the old man’s signature. I’ll take care of it till the time comes when it’s wanted.”

He held out his hand for the document, but George White drew back, smiling significantly.

“Not so fast, brother-in-law,” he said. “You shall have this when I receive the hundred dollars. That was the bargain, you remember.”

“You don’t expect I’ve got a hundred dollars in cash, do you?” asked Brackett, disturbed.

“Then why did you agree to pay me that sum when I had done my work?” demanded White.

“I didn’t think you’d insist on it. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you a hundred and fifty when the money comes in to me.”

“I am to have a thousand dollars then.”

“Of course; and this will make eleven hundred and fifty. Come, that’s a fair offer.”

“It may be, in your eyes, brother-in-law, but it isn’t in mine. I tell you I must have the money now.”

“Where do you think I can raise so much money?” asked Brackett, who underrated White’s penetration, or he would never have hoped to deceive him.

“Plenty of ways,” replied White, coolly.

“Your credit ought to be good for a loan of that amount, when you own a ten-thousand-dollar farm.”

“There isn’t anybody in town who has money to lend.”

“Must be a peculiar place, then. Is there a mortgage on the farm?”

“No.”

“Mortgage it, then, for a thousand dollars, pay me a hundred, and invest the rest.”

“I don’t believe Lucindy would agree to that.”

“I see that I shall have to tear the will up.”

“No, no; don’t do that,” said Brackett, hurriedly, extending his hand in alarm.

“I’ll wait till to-morrow, then, and you can think over the matter. Talk with Lucinda, if you like. If she’s wise, she’ll agree to my demands.”

Later in the day, George White found himself alone in the house. Mr. and Mrs. Brackett had gone to the village, taking the children with them.

“I think I’ll make a voyage of discovery,” said White. “I’ll see if Lucinda hasn’t got some money stowed away somewhere. It’s a great wonder if she hasn’t, for she’s of a very mean and saving disposition, and, judging from the table she keeps, she doesn’t spend all her income in pampering the appetites of her household.”

He went upstairs stealthily, and opened the door of his sister’s chamber. It was furnished like most bedrooms. Between the two windows stood the bureau, and to this George White instinctively made his way.

“Women always keep their valuables in their bureaus,” said White.

And his experience as a burglar qualified him to express an opinion on this subject.

Generally Mrs. Brackett kept the drawers of her bureau locked, but to-day, by some oversight, she had left a key in one of the locks.

This easily enabled White to search them.

In a corner of the upper drawer his quick eye lighted on a savings-bank book, and he opened it eagerly.

“Five hundred dollars!” he exclaimed, triumphantly. “So it seems my poverty-stricken brother-in-law is not so poor, after all. He won’t need to mortgage his farm to pay me my price. He and Lucinda were very cunning in keeping from me the knowledge of their savings, but it won’t work—no, it won’t work! He must draw the money out of the bank for me to-morrow, or I destroy the will.”

Just then a new thought occurred to White. Why couldn’t he take the book, forge an order, and draw out the whole sum from the savings bank himself? It tempted him, but prudence restrained him. It would be decidedly dangerous.

His sister and her husband were doubtless known in the next village, where the bank was located, and a stranger attempting to draw out money on their account would doubtless be subjected to suspicion, and probably be unable to accomplish his object.

“No, it won’t do,” White decided. “But I’ll suggest to Brackett where he can find the money to pay me.”

George White left his sister’s room, and a sudden impulse led him to continue his investigations.

It has already been said that he had been struck by Andy’s resemblance to some face he had seen before. It occurred to him after a while that the boy he resembled was the one who had baffled him in his attempt at robbery, on the highway, between Hamilton and Cranston.

But these towns were three hundred miles away, and it seemed far from likely that his brother-in-law’s hired boy had been in that distant locality so recently. Moreover, Andy had not appeared to recognize him—though, as we know, he had done so.

White had asked him questions, nevertheless, designed to draw out information on this point, but Andy had skillfully evaded them, without exciting his suspicions.

Still, White was desirous of learning something more about Andy, and it was with this object in view that he went up the attic stairs and entered the little room occupied by our hero.

Andy had no trunk, but there was an old dressing table in the room, containing a shallow drawer.

White opened this drawer, and curiously scanned the contents.

Andy had incautiously left in the drawer a letter received from his mother, addressed to the care of his friend George Tierney, and it was of course postmarked Hamilton.

“Hamilton!” exclaimed White, in astonishment. “Henry receives letters from Hamilton! Why, that is the place where the boy lived who balked me, and had poor Mike Hogan arrested. It’s the same boy, I’ll bet fifty dollars! I saw the resemblance at once.”

White opened the letter and read it through, and when he had finished, the whole secret was revealed to him.

He discovered that Andy was masquerading under an assumed name, that he was one of Simon Dodge’s Eastern relatives, who, doubtless, were in opposition to the interests of his sister and her husband.

“Well, here’s a conspiracy!” ejaculated White. “My sister has been cherishing a viper in her household, who is scheming to get possession of the old man’s property. Was there ever anything more vile and treacherous?”

And the professional burglar became virtuously indignant.

Then an expression of triumph lighted up his face.

“I’ve found you out, my boy, and I’ll put a spoke in your wheel,” he said to himself. “I’ve got a little score of my own to settle with you, my young friend, and don’t you forget it. Henry Miller, alias Andy Gordon, you’ll find that you are no match for George White. Now, how shall I revenge myself on him?”

A bright idea occurred to White.

He went back to his sister’s bedroom, took the savings-bank book, and carrying it up to the little attic chamber, put it in Andy’s drawer, but away back in one corner, where the boy himself would not be likely to see it.

“There’ll be lively times soon, I reckon,” he said to himself, complacently.