t the fact remains that he forged that will from beginning to
end, and did it so well that even Mr. Denny could detect no flaw,
either in the text or in the signatures. He must have possessed more
skill as a penman than any one imagined. At first we thought some
expert criminal must have helped him, but the fact of Tom Lance
discovering that sheet of paper covered with signatures in his desk
seems to prove that he did it himself. For the sake of the family my
mother did not wish him to be arrested, so gave him the opportunity to
escape--a chance of which he had the good sense to avail himself, for
he went off that night, and we never saw or heard anything of him
again. It turned out that he was deep in debt. The house and land at
Stonebank were heavily mortgaged, and as soon as it was known that he
was gone, everything was seized by the creditors. He was a thoroughly
bad man, and if it hadn't been for your adventure, Sylvester, he'd have
turned my mother and myself out of doors before he'd done with us.
Yes," insisted my old friend, seeing me about to interrupt, "we shall
always consider we owe it to you and George Woodley that we are still
living on in the old house. If you hadn't caused me to find the secret
place, Mr. Denny would never have seen that codicil to my father's will
which made him feel certain that the other was a forgery. It was that
discovery, coupled with what I had already told him, that induced him
to go and hunt up Tom Lance; and the two things together were enough to
prove my uncle's guilt. Well, 'it's an ill wind that blows nobody
good,' runs the old saying, and certainly we have cause to be thankful
for the outcome of your eventful journey with the coach-load of
convicts."

* * * * *

Though the "secret place" has long ago been bricked up, the old house
at Coverthorne remains much the same as it appeared when I first saw
it; but a fresh generation of boys and girls have sprung up to enliven
it with their laughter and frolics, and to this merry audience, around
the self-same hearth from under which I was drawn up half dead that
winter morning, I have told repeatedly the story of that strange
adventure.

George Woodley lived to a hale and peaceful old age. He did well at
his farming, and was content to hear from a distance the familiar toot
of the horn on which he himself had performed for so many years. He
was the same bright, good-hearted fellow to the end