Mentally he reviewed his financial position. He had considerably more than a hundred thousand pounds in gilt-edged securities, which were easily realizable--or transferable. He had house property in the north of London, and a fairly large fluid balance at the bank. And he was fifty. There were fifteen years of life ahead of him--fifteen happy years. How could he better use his money than in buying happiness? The life companionship of that fragrant thing, and afterward a will whereby she lost all interest in his property if she married again--Mr. Gilder thought a long way ahead. And his marriage would be a knife in the heart of the Second Son, for he guessed Dick Alford’s secret. He saw his way now; the plan was foolproof and invincible. Nothing stood between him and the realization of what had once been a wild and foolish hope. “A week? You’re sure of that?” Thomas nodded. His cunning eyes had not left Gilder’s face. Unconscious of the curious scrutiny, Fabrian asked: “Why do you think this news is interesting to me?” The man grinned and closed his right eye in a significant wink. “Didn’t you ask me to tell you how often the young lady went to Fossaway Manor? Didn’t you tell me to write everything that happened between her and his lordship?” Gilder was silent. It was not a comfortable thought that he had employed such a man as this to watch the girl he loved. “You’d better keep close here,” he said. “I don’t want you to be seen by the villagers or by the people from Fossaway Manor. Does anybody know you’re here?” “No, sir. Not even Miss Gwyn: she never asked----” Gilder interrupted him brusquely. “If you’re going to town, go by night, and come back by night. I’m not so sure that it won’t be a good idea to stay here after all.” He got back to London late in the evening and spent the night in a strict examination of his finances. He had dismissed from his mind all thoughts of the Chelford treasure. Mary Wenner had certainly justification for her confidence. He himself had been deceived when he had looked through the grating and seen those cylinders neatly arranged on the stone bench. Who had moved them--the Black Abbot? There must be some explanation for him. But he had his own ideas on the subject, and the moment had not yet arrived when he could test his theory. The next morning he spent in the City and at Somerset House, examining the will of the late Lady Chelford. Her legacies were set forth in detail, and the character of the shares and stocks with which Arthur Gwyn had been entrusted were particularized, and John Henry Gwyn, Arthur’s uncle, named as trustee. A search of the court files failed to reveal any successor to Arthur’s uncle, and apparently no trustee had been appointed, the stocks being left in Arthur’s care. He would of course have authority to sell and reinvest, and there would be no trouble if shares of a corresponding value were handed over to Harry Chelford’s new solicitors. * * *