"Well, what do you make of it?" I enquired. "That's the important point." He puffed thoughtfully at his cigar. "I don't want to say anything rude about your relations," he observed, "but you certainly seem to have struck a peach in the way of uncles." "It looks as if somebody had disliked him," I agreed. "All the same, I don't see why they should work off their spite on me." Bobby brooded over the problem with a meditative frown. "I don't imagine it's spite," he began. "People generally have a pretty good reason when they start committing murder. It's much more likely that your uncle was in with some swindling crowd who managed to bring off a big coup. He probably did the rest out of their share of the boodle, and now he's dead they're trying to collect it." "They won't get anything by slaughtering me," I objected. "How do you know?" he demanded. "From what this lawyer Johnny told you there's a whole heap of stuff still unaccounted for. It must be somewhere. Why shouldn't it be here?" "Here!" I echoed. "Yes, here on the island, stowed away--buried. A man doesn't go and invest a lot of stolen money--not unless he's a damned fool." I drew in a long breath. "By Jove, that's a notion!" I said. "It never occurred to me." "No, it wouldn't," he returned kindly. "You were always a bit slow in the up-take. It's just as well you've got an intelligent friend to look after you." There was a short pause while I did some rapid thinking. "Bobby," I said, "do you know anything about this fellow Manning?" He tossed away the stump of his cigar and helped himself to another. "I thought that was coming," he said drily. "Yes, I know several things about him, and one is that according to your own account he's mighty anxious to get hold of Greensea Island." "I told you his yarn," I interrupted. "He says he wants to start a yachting club." "Funny he hasn't mentioned it to anyone down here. I suppose he was afraid somebody would pinch the idea." "Who is he?" I asked. "Where does he come from?" Bobby struck a match, and with some care lighted his cigar. "He is one of those mysterious gents that nobody seems to know anything about. According to what I've heard, he rolled up here last summer and bought _The Penguin_, an old barge that used to belong to a fellow called Collinson. He gave out that he wanted to go in for wild fowling, and, to do the blighter justice, he certainly is a first-class hand with a gun." "It sounds to me as if you didn't like him," I said. "I can't stick him at any price. All the same, he's very well in with the people down here. Quite a leading light among the sporting crowd. He belongs to the club at Shalston, and he's always ready to take a hand in anything that's going on." "What's your objection to him?" I asked. "Nothing much. I just think he's a wrong 'un." "But why?" I persisted. "You must have some reason."