Ross took a long and appreciative drink. "He has had a rotten time somehow," he replied; "that's quite certain. I should put him down as a naturally healthy man who had been broken up by bad feeding and rough living." He paused. "But I expect you're pretty well up in the family history now?" he added drily. "That's the weak point of your profession," I retorted. "When you don't know you generally guess wrong. As a matter of fact I only met Miss de Roda in the tram coming down from Oporto. There wasn't much time for private enquiry work, even if I had felt like it." "You didn't do so badly," returned Ross, wagging his head. "There is nothing women like so much as a little display of primitive brutality. It's just your luck to have had the chance. That sort of thing never comes my way." He finished his drink and put down the tumbler. "Aren't you going to open your wire?" he asked. "There it is on the table." "By Jove!" I exclaimed. "I'd forgotten all about it." I crossed the cabin, and, slitting the flap of the little blue envelope, pulled out the flimsy sheet of paper inside. It was headed "London, May 26th," and underneath was the following message: "Regret inform you your uncle, Richard Jannaway, died 17th inst. As next of kin you inherit. Please call 117 Bedford Row as soon as you reach England.--Wilmot and Drayton, solicitors." For several seconds I stood there contemplating this document, in such complete surprise that at last Ross got up a little anxiously from where he was sitting. "Nothing wrong, I hope?" he asked. Without a word I handed him the slip, and he in turn read through its contents. "My sainted aunt!" he exclaimed. "Have you come into a fortune or what?" "I haven't the faintest notion," I said. There was a short pause. Then once more he glanced through the message which he was still holding in his hand. "Who was Mr. Richard Jannaway?" he demanded. "And what's all the mystery about?" I picked up the whisky and helped myself to a drink. "He was my mother's brother," I said. "I know hardly anything about him besides that. I was under the impression that he was dead years ago." "Haven't you ever seen him?" I shook my head. "He left England when I was a baby. I believe he was a pretty bad egg one way and another--the sort of black sheep that every respectable family rolls out occasionally. I have got some vague idea that he went to South America, but so far as I know there has never been any news of him from that day to this." Ross reseated himself on the bunk and stared at me with vast enjoyment. "You've struck the main reef, my son," he observed. "It's the sort of thing one reads about in a shilling shocker. He's probably made a huge fortune cornering castor oil or something, and when you get back you'll find yourself a prancing millionaire." "It's much more likely he's left me a bundle of debts," I said sceptically.