The superscription was in a formal hand, and, on reading it, I was surprised to find that it was from a firm of solicitors in Bedford Row, stating that my uncle George, a cotton-spinner in Bury, had died, leaving a will by which I was to receive the sum of one thousand pounds as a legacy. I read the letter, time after time, scarcely able to believe the good news. But an hour later, when I sat in the dingy office in Bedford Row, and my uncle's solicitor read a copy of the will to me, I saw that it was a reality--a fact which was indeed, proved by the cheque for fifty pounds which he handed me for my immediate use. I drove to the Joint Stock Bank in Chancery Lane, cashed the draft, and returned to Bayswater with five ten-pound notes in my pocket. From a state of penury I had, within that single hour, become possessed of funds. True, I had always had expectations from that quarter; but I had, like millions of other men, never before been possessor of a thousand pounds. In a week or two the money would be placed to my credit. To a man with only half a crown in his pocket a thousand pounds appears a fortune. I counted the crisp new notes in the privacy of the doctor's sitting-room, then, locking three of them in my portmanteau, took a cab down to Rowan Road to receive Bob's congratulations. He was delighted. He sent Mrs Bishop out for a bottle of the best champagne procurable in the neighbourhood, and we drank merrily to my future success. Then, while smoking a cigarette over what remained of the wine, I related to him my strange adventure of the previous night. He sat listening to my story open-mouthed. Until I had concluded, he uttered no word. Then gravely he exclaimed-- "The affair grows more and more amazing. But now, look here, Dick! Why don't you take my advice, and drop the affair altogether?" "Drop it? What do you mean? Remember Beryl!" "I know," he answered. "But I can't help feeling that association with those people is dangerous. They're a queer lot--a devilishly queer lot!" "Of course they're a queer lot," I said; "but I can't leave her to their mercy. She's in deadly peril of her life; they intend to kill her." A grave expression was on his face. "Do you think that last night's curious phenomenon was actually an attempt to kill her?" he inquired. "Without a doubt." "Then, if so, how was it that you all experienced similar symptoms? What's old Hoefer's theory?" "He has none." "He never has--or, at least, he pretends that he hasn't; he keeps all his discoveries to himself. That's why he has always refused to write any books. When he lectures he's always careful to keep his secrets to himself." "Yes; he's a queer old boy," I remarked, for his eccentricities were many, and had often caused us much amusement at Guy's. "I only wish, Dick, that you'd try to forget all about this tangled affair," Bob said earnestly. "You're worrying yourself to death all to no purpose."