"I congratulate you," I said, taking her hand, "on marrying a real man.
I think the two of you are the pluckiest pair I have ever met. It will
be long before I forget that incident on the roof of Chateau d'Uzerche.
But for you, neither Frank nor I would be alive to-day."
"Nor the Baronne, nor Dago Paulton," she added mischievously. "Oh, yes,
I am a heroine! A heroine to save such very precious lives!"
"Are you not grateful to the Baronne?" I asked quickly. "After all,
she did adopt you, and bring you up."
"Yes," the girl answered, with a swift, reproachful glance, "she adopted
me and brought me up, but only that I might help to further her own
ends. She didn't adopt me out of affection, I can assure you."
I saw that I had again trodden upon thin ice, so I quickly changed the
topic.
"But the great mystery," I said, addressing Faulkner, "is not yet
solved. How on earth did Whichelo's will, leaving you this fortune,
come to be in the safe in Chateau d'Uzerche, in the Basses Alpes? When
did Whichelo die?"
"Four months ago. The lawyers distinctly remember him making a will,
but he had never returned it to them, and, since his death, they had
been trying to find it. They even advertised for it."
"To whom would his fortune have gone, had he died intestate?" I
inquired suddenly.
"To his younger brother, Henry. From what the lawyers tell me, this
brother of his must be a peculiar man. His life appears to be a
mystery. He is, however, known to be intimate with your friend, Sir
Charles Thorold. Sir Charles and he were in Mexico together ten years
ago, the lawyers tell me, and were there again about three years ago."
"Who are the lawyers who wrote to you?" something prompted me to ask.
"You mean about the will? Oh, a firm in Lincoln's Inn, Spink and
Peters."
Instantly I thought of old Taylor.
"Ah," I said, "I have heard of them. Thorold has had some business
dealings with them. By the way--who opened the safe?"
"The French police. It seems, that since the fire, neither Dago Paulton
nor the Baronne de Coudron have shown any signs of life. Even the
insurance people have not been written to by them."
"Paulton and the Baronne are probably afraid of being arrested," I said
at once.
We talked a little longer, but Faulkner seemed unable to throw any
further light on the mystery of the will being found in the safe, and
the lawyers were equally in the dark. Probably they would never have
heard of the will had the French police not communicated with them.
"Oh, I have another bit of news for you," Faulkner said suddenly. "Sir
Charles Thorold is to return to Houghton."
"My father going back to Houghton!" Vera exclaimed, amazed. "Why, who
told you that? I've heard nothing of it."
"Read it in the newspaper this morning," Faulkner answered. "I have the
paper here--in my pocket."
He tugged out of his coat-pocket a copy of a morning paper, unfolded it,
and presently found the announcement.
"There it is," he said, passing the paper to her, with his finger on the
paragraph.