which wouldrender us both rich beyond the dreams of avarice. But in this we hadbeen most bitterly disappointed. For five years, I confess, we hadwaited, expecting that he would some day share some of his wealth withus in return for those services we had rendered him in the past. Yetnow it seemed he had coolly disregarded his indebtedness to us, and atthe same time imposed upon me a duty by no means easy--the guardianshipof his only daughter Mabel.
CHAPTER TWO.
CONTAINS CERTAIN MYSTERIOUS FACTS.
I ought here to declare that, having regard to all the curious andmysterious circumstances of the past, the situation was, to me, far fromsatisfactory. As we strolled together along Market Street that coldnight discussing the affair, rather than remain in the public room ofthe hotel, Reggie suggested that the secret might be written somewhereand sealed up among the dead man's effects. But in that case, unless itwere addressed to us, it would be opened by the persons the dying manhad designated as "those scoundrelly lawyer chaps," and in allprobability be turned by them to profitable account.
His solicitors were, we knew, Messrs. Leighton, Brown and Leighton, aneminently respectable firm in Bedford Row; therefore we sent a telegramfrom the Central Office informing them of their client's sudden death,and requesting that one of the firm should at once come to Manchester toattend the inquest which Doctor Glenn had declared would be necessary.As the deceased man had expressed a wish that Mabel should, for thepresent, remain in ignorance, we did not inform her of the tragicoccurrence.
Curiosity prompted us to ascend again to the dead man's chamber andexamine the contents of his kit-bag and suit-case, but, beyond hisclothes, a cheque-book and about ten pounds in gold, we found nothing.I think that we both half expected to discover the key to thatremarkable secret which he had somehow obtained, yet it was hardly to beimagined that he would carry such a valuable asset about with him in hisluggage.
In the pocket of a small writing-book which formed part of the fittingsof the suit-case I discovered several letters, all of which I examinedand found them to be of no importance--save one, a dirty, ill-writtennote in uneducated Italian, which contained some passages which struckme as curious.
Indeed, so strange was the tenor of the whole communication that, withReggie's connivance, I resolved to take possession of it and makefurther inquiry.
There were many things about Burton Blair that had puzzled us for years,therefore we were both determined, if possible, to elucidate the curiousmystery that had surrounded him, even if he had carried to his grave thesecret of his enormous fortune.
We alone in all the world knew the existence of the secret, only we werein ignorance of the necessary key by which the source of riches could beopened. The manner in which he had gained his great wealth was amystery to every one, even to his daughter Mabel. In the City and inSociety he was vaguely believed by some to possess large interests inmines, and to be a successful speculator in stocks, while othersdeclared that he was the ground-landlord of at least two large cities inAmerica, and yet others were positive that certain concessions from theOttoman Government had brought him his gold.
All were, however, mistaken in their surmises. Burton Blair possessednot an acre of land; he had not a shilling in any public company; he wasnot interested in either Government concessions or industrialenterprises. No. The source of the great wealth by which he had, infive years, been able to purchase, decorate and furnish in princelymanner one of the finest houses in Grosvenor Square, keep three of themost expensive Panhards, motoring being his hobby, and rent that fineold Jacobean mansion Mayvill Court, in Herefordshire, came from a sourcewhich nobody knew or even suspected. His were mysterious millions.
"I wonder if anything will come out at the inquest?" queried Reggie,later that evening. "His lawyers undoubtedly know nothing."
"He may have left some paper which reveals the truth," I answered. "Menwho are silent in life often commit their secrets to paper."
"I don't think Burton ever did."
"He may have done so for Mabel's benefit, remember."
"Ah! by Jove!" gasped my friend, "I never thought of that. If he wishedto provide for her, he would leave his secret with some one whom hecould implicitly trust. Yet he trusted us--up to a certain point. Weare the only ones who have any real knowledge of the state of affairs,"and my tall, long-legged, fair-haired friend, who stood six feet in hisstockings, the picture of the easygoing muscular Englishman, althoughengaged in the commerce of feminine frippery, stopped with a low gruntof dissatisfaction, and carefully lit a fresh cigar.
We passed a dismal evening strolling about the main streets ofManchester, feeling that in Burton Blair we had lost a friend, but whenon the following morning we met Herbert Leighton, the solicitor, in thehall of the _Queen's_, and had a long consultation with him, the mysterysurrounding the dead man became considerably heightened.
"You both knew my late client very well, indeed," the solicitorremarked, after some preliminaries. "Now, are you aware of theexistence of any one who would profit by his sudden decease?"
"That's a curious question," I remarked. "Why?"
"Well, the fact is this," explained the dark, sharp-featured man, withsome hesitation. "I have every reason to believe that he has been thevictim of foul play."
"Foul play!" I gasped. "You surely don't think that he was murdered?Why, my dear fellow, that couldn't be. He was taken ill in the train,and died in bed in our presence."
The solicitor, whose face had now become graver, merely shrugged hisnarrow shoulders, and said--"We must, of course, await the result of theinquest, but from information in my possession I feel confident thatBurton Blair did not die a natural death."
That same evening the Coroner held his inquiry in a private room in thehotel, and, according to the two doctors who had made the postmortemearlier in the day, death was due entirely to natural causes. It wasdiscovered that Blair had naturally a weak heart, and that the fataltermination had been accelerated by the oscillation of the train.
There was absolutely nothing whatever to induce any suspicion of foulplay, therefore the jury returned a verdict in accordance with themedical evidence that death was due to natural causes, and an order wasgiven for the removal of the body to London for burial.
An hour after the inquest I took Mr. Leighton aside and said--
"As you know, I have for some years been one of the late Mr. Blair'smost intimate friends, and, therefore, I am naturally very muchinterested to know what induced you to suspect foul play."
"My suspicions were well based," was his rather enigmatical answer.
"Upon what?"
"Upon the fact that my client himself had been threatened, and that,although he told no one and laughed at my suggested precautions, he haslived in daily dread of assassination."
"Curious!" I ejaculated. "Very curious!"
I told him nothing of that remarkable letter I had secured from the deadman's luggage. If what he said were really true, then there was a veryextraordinary secret in the death of Burton Blair, equally with that ofhis strange, romantic and mysterious life--a secret that wasinscrutable, yet absolutely unique.
It will be necessary, I think, to fully explain the curiouscircumstances which first brought us into contact with Burton Blair, andto describe the mysterious events which followed our acquaintanceship.From beginning to end the whole affair is so remarkable that many whoread this record of facts may be inclined to doubt my veracity. Tosuch, I would at the very outset suggest that they make inquiries inLondon, in that little world of adventurers, speculators, money-lendersand money-losers known as "the City," where I feel sure they will haveno difficulty in learning even further interesting details regarding theman of mysterious millions whom this narrative partially concerns.
And certainly the true facts concerning him will, I do not hesitate tosay, be found to form one of the most remarkable romances in modernlife.
CHAPTER THREE.
IN WHICH A STRANGE STORY IS TOLD.
In order
to put the plain, unvarnished truth before you, I must, in thefirst place, explain that I, Gilbert Greenwood, was a man of smallmeans, having been left an annuity by an ascetic Baptist, but somewhatprosperous aunt, while Reginald Seton I had known ever since we had beenlads together at Charterhouse. The son of George Seton, a lacewarehouseman of Cannon Street and Alderman of the City of London, Reggiehad been left at twenty-five with a heavy burden of debt and anold-fashioned, high-class but rapidly declining business. Still,brought up to the lace trade in a factory at Nottingham, Reggie boldlyfollowed in his father's footsteps, and by dint of close attention tobusiness succeeding in rubbing along sufficiently well to avoid thebankruptcy court, and to secure an income of a few hundreds a year.
Both of us were still bachelors, and we chummed in comfortable chambersin a
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