“The exact news is this,” the lawyer said slowly: “Sir Gaspard was taken ill in Paris, and, being nervous, made a will, calling in a lawyer who was in the hotel. The Dean of Chelsea, also a guest in the house, and the proprietor were witnesses, and the will was placed by the latter in his safe. A duplicate Sir Gaspard took with him on his ill-fated journey. He left that night for Rome by the Mont Cenis route, and at dawn the train was wrecked, just before it reached Aix. When I say wrecked I mean there was an accident merely.” “Of course!” Cylmer fidgeted. What did it matter how the thing happened; it had no connection with Sir Gaspard’s affairs. “In the sleeping-carriage, or just beside it, Sir Gaspard and his servant were found by the guard, who had escaped injury and was able to identify them, or, rather, the servant”--clearing his throat hastily--“for the burning carriage had--well! the man knew it was Sir Gaspard; he had noticed the fur-lined coat he traveled in, and there were charred fragments of it around the body.” Mr. Bolton paused; old friend as he was of Gaspard le Marchant, the manner of his death sickened him. “Was there no one else in the carriage?” “One other man, a Frenchman. But he must have been caught in the burning carriage and utterly destroyed. The railway people sent a very clean report, and it has been corroborated by wire by the clerk I sent over at once. He saw the bodies. I am afraid there is no doubt, for he had often seen Parker. I was in the habit of sending him to Marchant’s Hold on business. Sir Gaspard of late came to town very seldom.” “I remember that fur-lined coat,” Cylmer said unwillingly. He remembered also the history of it; the sables of its lining had been a present from Sir Gaspard’s Russian wife; it was for her sake that he wore it. “But it was curious that he should have made a will in that sudden way,” he protested. “Not in his state of health,” Bolton returned. “I saw his doctor yesterday, and I learned from him that Sir Gaspard’s death was in any case imminent. He had a mortal disease--and knew it. Personally, I think he went to Rome to die there--at least he meant to do so. That, you see, explains his making a will.” Cylmer nodded. “How did you hear of the will?” he asked. “I thought I told you,” patiently. “The will, with a letter from Dubourg, the hotel proprietor, reached me yesterday. In it he mentioned the Dean of Chelsea as one of the witnesses, and him I saw this morning. It was all perfectly regular. The dean read both wills at Sir Gaspard’s bidding. They were exactly alike. He thought him looking very ill at the time.” “Poor little Cristiane!” Cylmer said involuntarily. “It is a great responsibility for her, all that money and land.” “She is young”--with the unconscious cynicism of years--“the world--life--will console her! But I could wish I had been left her guardian.” “What!” Cylmer’s handsome face was blank. “Who is, then, if you are not?”