"Where can we go to?" she asked, with a quick glance up and down the street. "Do you know any place close by where there won't be a lot of people?" "There's a tea-shop at the corner of Bond Street," I said. "It's not likely to be crowded at this time of day." She nodded her head. "That will do. I can't stand and talk to you here. Somebody might see us." "Come along then," I remarked, and, turning the corner into Piccadilly, I led the way along the crowded pavement until we reached the establishment in question. It was a pleasant, quiet place, panelled in brown oak, and except for a solitary couple near the door we appeared to be the only customers. We walked across to the far corner and seated ourselves at one of the empty tables. "What shall I order?" I asked, as a tall, flaxen-haired lady advanced with dignity from behind the counter. Christine laid down the menu which I had handed her. "I don't want anything except a cup of black coffee," she said. "I have just had lunch." "So have I," I rejoined, "and a jolly good one it was too." I announced our simple needs to the waitress, who returned in a few minutes with the desired refreshment, and set it down in front of my companion. I could not help noticing the gleam of reluctant admiration with which she took in every detail of Christine's appearance. The latter filled up one of the two little cups and passed it across to me. "Mr. Dryden," she began in a low voice, "I want you if you will to tell me exactly what has happened with regard to your uncle's property. I know it must sound an extraordinary question, but I am only asking it in what I believe to be your own interests." "Of course I'll tell you," I said. "It's the one thing I've been longing to do for the last two days." I took a sip of the coffee and sat back in my chair. "To put it badly," I continued, "it amounts to this. My uncle died without making a will, and unless he was married--which doesn't seem to be the case--I come into everything that he left behind him. As far as I know at present, the 'everything' consists of about ten thousand pounds in cash and a place called Greensea Island, off the Essex coast." There was a short pause. "Greensea Island," she repeated slowly. "Was that where your uncle lived?" "It was where he lived," I said, "and it was also where he died. He bought the place about six months ago, and shut himself up there with a dog and a retired prize-fighter. Mr. Drayton, the lawyer, has got hold of a notion that he was frightened of somebody or something. It does look rather like it, because from all accounts he never went to the mainland, and never allowed any visitors on the island." Her brown eyes were fixed curiously on mine. "Have you any idea what he was frightened about?" I shrugged my shoulders. "Not the faintest; but, from the way my father used to talk of him when I was a boy, I can quite imagine that he had all sorts of unpleasant things on his conscience."