That the precious document, or whatever it was, sewn up in the
wash-leather which the dead man had so carefully guarded through all
those years was now missing was, in itself, a very suspicious
circumstance, while Mabel's vague but distinct apprehensions, which she
either would not or could not define, now aroused my suspicions that
Burton Blair had been the victim of foul play.
Immediately after leaving her I therefore drove to Bedford Row and held
another consultation with Leighton, to whom I explained my grave fears.
"As I have already explained, Mr. Greenwood," responded the solicitor,
leaning back in his padded chair and regarding me gravely through his
glasses, "I believe that my client did not die a natural death. There
was some mystery in his life, some strange romantic circumstance which,
unfortunately, he never thought fit to confide to me. He held a secret,
he told me, and by knowledge of that secret, he obtained his vast
wealth. Only half an hour ago I made a rough calculation of the present
value of his estate, and at the lowest, I believe it will be found to
amount to over two and a half millions. The whole of this, I may tell
you in confidence, goes unreservedly to his daughter, with the exception
of several legacies, which include ten thousand each to Mr. Seton and to
yourself, two thousand to Mrs. Percival, and some small sums to the
servants. But," he added, "there is a clause in the will which is very
puzzling, and which closely affects yourself. As we both suspect foul
play, I think I may as well at once show it to you without waiting for
my unfortunate client's burial and the formal reading of his will."
Then he rose, and from a big black deed box lettered "Burton Blair,
Esquire," he took out the dead man's will, and, opening it, showed me a
passage which read:--
Ten: "I give and bequeath to Gilbert Greenwood of The Cedars, Helpstone,
the small bag of chamois leather that will be found upon me at the time
of my death, in order that he may profit by what is contained therein,
and as recompense for certain valuable services rendered to me. Let him
recollect always this rhyme--
"`_Henry the Eighth was a knave to his queens, He'd, one short of
seven--and nine or ten scenes_!'
"And let him well and truly preserve the secret from every man, just as
I have done."
That was all. A strange clause surely! Burton Blair had, after all,
actually bequeathed his secret to me, the secret that had brought him
his colossal wealth! Yet it was already lost--probably stolen by his
enemies.
"That's a curious doggerel," the solicitor smiled. "But poor Blair
possessed but little literary culture, I fear. He knew more about the
sea than poetry. Yet, after all, it seems a tantalising situation that
you should be left the secret of the source of my client's enormous
fortune, and that it should be stolen from you in this manner."
"We had, I think, better consult the police, and explain our
suspicions," I said, in bitter chagrin that the chamois sachet should
have fallen into other hands.
"I entirely agree with you, Mr. Greenwood. We will go together to
Scotland Yard and get them to institute inquiries. If Mr. Blair was
actually murdered, then his assassination was accomplished in a most
secret and remarkable manner, to say the least. But there is one
further clause in the will which is somewhat disturbing, and that is
with regard to his daughter Mabel. The testator has appointed some
person of whom I have never heard--a man called Paolo Melandrini, an
Italian, apparently living in Florence, to be her secretary and the
manager of her affairs."
"What!" I cried, amazed. "An Italian to be her secretary! Who is he?"
"A person with whom I am not acquainted; whose name, indeed, has never
been mentioned to me by my client. He merely dictated it to me when I
drafted the will."
"But the thing's absurd!" I exclaimed. "Surely you can't let an
unknown foreigner, who may be an adventurer for all we know, have
control of all her money?"
"I fear there's no help for it," replied Leighton, gravely. "It is
written here, and we shall be compelled to give notice to this man,
whoever he is, of his appointment at a salary of five thousand pounds a
year."
"And will he really have control of her affairs?"
"Absolutely. Indeed, the whole estate is left to her on condition that
she accepts this fellow as her secretary and confidential adviser."
"Why, Blair must have been mad!" I exclaimed. "Has Mabel any knowledge
of this mysterious Italian?"
"She has never heard of him."
"Well, in that case, I think that, before he is informed of poor Blair's
death and the good fortune in store for him, we ought at least to find
out who and what he is. We can in any case, keep a watchful eye on him,
and see that he doesn't trick Mabel out of her money."