Turning out the gas in the corridor, Faynie glided forward like a shadow, and, reaching the library, noiselessly pushed open the door, which he had left slightly ajar. "What was he doing here?" she wondered vaguely, her eyes blazing with fierce indignation as she stood there considering what her next action should be. He decided, the question by exclaiming: "Ha! This is the little iron safe she mentioned: of course the money is here, and the will is probably here, too, for that matter, which states that all of the Fairfax fortune goes to the old lady--which means the pretty Claire ultimately. Well, the more money the better; there is no one more competent to make it fly at a gay pace than myself. A prince of the royal blood couldn't go at a faster pace than I have been going during these last three weeks! Ha, ha, ha!" In a moment he was kneeling before the safe. To his intense satisfaction the knob yielded to his deft touch. "I shall have less trouble than I anticipated," he muttered, with a little chuckle. Faynie stood motionless, scarcely three feet behind him, watching him intently, with horror-stricken eyes and glued tongue. She saw him take a roll of bills, and after carefully counting them, transfer them to his pocket. Heirlooms, too, in the way of a costly diamond stud, sleeve links, and massive watch and chain, which had been her father's, went the same way. Faynie seemed incapable of interfering. "Now we will soon determine what else there is here of importance--my time cannot be more profitably spent than by informing myself." Paper after paper he carefully unfolded, glancing quickly through their contents, and as quickly tossing them back into the safe. Evidently he had not yet found that for which he was searching so intently. Suddenly he came across a large square envelope, the words on which seemed to arrest his attention at once. And in a whispered, yet distinctly audible voice, he read the words: "Horace Fairfax, last message to his wife--dated March 22, 18--." "Why that is the very date upon which he died," muttered Kendale. "This must have been written just before he committed suicide. Well, we will see what he had to say." And slowly he read, half aloud, as follows: "MY DEAR WIFE: When you read the words here penned I shall be no more. I know your heart will be most bitter against me for what I have just done, but, realizing that my end was near, I have done it for the best. "I refer to the making of my will. "When a man sees death before him, he naturally wishes to see those nearest and dearest to him provided for, so far as he is able to do so. "You will remember distinctly the conversation we had at the time I proposed marriage to you. I reminded you that I was a widower, with a daughter whom I loved far better than the apple of my eye.