The function in the library at Grosvenor Square on the following
afternoon was, as may be supposed, a very sad and painful one.
Mabel Blair, dressed in deep mourning, her eyes betraying traces of
tears, sat still and silent while the solicitor drily read over the
will, clause by clause.
She made no comment, even when he repeated the dead man's appointment of
the unknown Italian to be manager of his daughter's fortune.
"But who is he, pray?" demanded Mrs. Percival, in her quiet, refined
voice. "I have never heard Mr. Blair speak of any such person."
"Nor have I," admitted Leighton, pausing a moment to readjust his
glasses, and then continuing to read the document through to the end.
We were all thoroughly glad when the formality was over. Afterwards,
Mabel whispered to me that she wished to see me alone in the
morning-room, and when we had entered together and I had closed the
door, she said--
"Last night I searched the small safe in my father's bedroom where he
sometimes kept his private papers and things. There were a quantity of
my poor mother's letters, written to him years ago when he was at sea,
but nothing else, only this." And she drew from her pocket a small,
soiled and frayed playing-card, an ace of hearts, upon which certain
cabalistic capitals had been written in three columns. In order that
you shall properly understand the arrangement and position of the
letters, it will perhaps be as well if I here reproduce it:--
"That's curious!" I remarked, turning it over anxiously in my hand.
"Have you tried to discover what meaning the words convey?"
"Yes; but it's some cipher or other, I think. You will notice that the
two upper columns commence with `A,' and the lower column ends with the
same letter. The card is the ace of hearts, and in all those points I
detect some hidden meaning."
"No doubt," I said. "But was there an appearance of it being carefully
preserved?"
"Yes, it was sealed in a linen-lined envelope to itself, and marked in
my father's handwriting, `Burton Blair--private.' I wonder what it
means?"
"Ah! I wonder," I exclaimed, pondering deeply, and still gazing upon
the three columns of fourteen letters. I tried to decipher it by the
usual known methods of the easy cipher, but could make nothing
intelligible of it. There were some hidden words there, and being
utterly unintelligible, they caused me considerable thought. Why Blair
had preserved that card in such secrecy was, to say the least, a
mystery. In it I suspected there was some hidden clue to his secret,
but of its nature I could not even guess.
When we had discussed it for a long time, arriving at no satisfactory
conclusion, I suggested that she should go abroad with Mrs. Percival for
a few weeks so as to change her surroundings and endeavour to forget her
sudden bereavement, but she only shook her head, murmuring--
"No, I prefer to remain here. The loss of my poor father would be the
same to me abroad as it is here."
"But you must endeavour to forget," I urged with deep sympathy. "We are
doing our utmost to solve the mystery surrounding your father's actions,
and the means by which he came by his death. To-night, indeed, I am
leaving for Italy in order to make secret inquiries regarding this
person who is appointed your secretary."
"Ah, yes," she sighed. "I wonder who he is? I wonder what motive my
father could possibly have in placing my affairs in the hands of a
stranger?"
"He is probably an old friend of your father's," I suggested.
"No," she responded, "I knew all his friends. He had only one secret
from me--the secret of the source of his wealth. That he always refused
point blank to tell me."
"I shall travel direct to Florence, and discover what I can before the
lawyers give this mysterious person notice of your father's death," I
said. "I may obtain some knowledge which will be of the greatest
benefit to us hereafter."
"Ah! it is really very good of you, Mr. Greenwood," she answered,
lifting her beautiful eyes to mine with an expression of profound
gratitude. "I must admit that the idea of being closely associated with
a stranger, and that stranger a foreigner, causes me considerable
apprehension."
"But he may be young and good looking, the veritable Paolo of romance--
and you his Francesca," I suggested, smiling.
Her sweet lips relaxed slightly, but she shook her head, sighing as she
answered--
"Please don't anticipate anything of the kind. I only hope he may be
old and very ugly."
"So that he will not arouse my jealousy--eh?" I laughed. "Really,
Mabel, if our friendship were not upon such a well-defined basis, I
should allow myself to act the part of lover. You know I--"
"Now don't be foolish," she interrupted, raising her small finger in
mock reproval. "Remember what you said yesterday."
"I said what I meant."
"And so did I. To tell you the truth, I like to think of you as my big
brother," she declared. "I suppose I shall never love," she added,
reflectively, gazing into the blazing fire.
"No, no; don't say that, Mabel. You'll one day meet some man in your
own station, love him, marry and be happy," I said, my hand upon her
shoulder. "Recollect that with your wealth you can secure the pick of
the matrimonial market."
"Some impoverished young aristocrat, you mean? No, thanks. I've
already met a good many, but their disguise of affection has always been
much too thin. Most of them wanted my money to pay off mortgages on
their estates. No, I'd much prefer a poor man--although I shall _never_
marry--never."