“This uncle was appointed the boy's guardian, and Robert was to remain with him until he should be of age. By that time Mr. Ian Erskine had died, too, leaving his fortune as he had promised, I understand, and Robert stayed on at the Four Winds Ranch near Calgary. We had very little indeed to do with him after his father's death. I presume he preferred to employ his uncle's man of business. I doubt but that he takes after his father and is a bit careless with money, for over two months ago, on May 20th to be exact, Mrs. Erskine instructed me to send Robert £1,000. I was abroad for my holidays at the time, so I went to see her. Mrs. Erskine lives in France for the sake of her health. She left Scotland shortly after her husband and son went to Canada and has a fine villa outside Nice. There she showed me his last letter, in which he asked for the money to settle some card debt. I gathered from Mrs. Erskine, more by what she didn't say than by what she did, that he frequently applied to her for funds. I'm not saying that she can't afford it, for owing to her profitable investments—she has a rare head for finance—her income has been more like ten thousand than seven these many years past. But, frankly, gentleman, it wasn't the kind of letter I should have cared to write to my mother,—and her a widow and frail. Well, we sent the one thousand pounds by a draft on a Toronto bank, and received a scrap of a receipt on June seventeenth, along with a sealed envelope marked ‘My Last Will and Testament’ with instructions to keep it for him, and use it if need be.” “Can I see the covering letter to his will?” The solicitor held it out. It was the briefest of notes headed from a Toronto hotel and dated June 4. “Dear Mr. Russell, I shall be much obliged if you will take charge of the enclosed. It is my last, and only will. Should I die kindly act on it at once. Faithfully yours, Robert Erskine.” “You have the will with you, too, sir?” “Aye, I have.” But Mr. Russell made no motion to produce it. “Under the circumstances, as you have definitely identified the body as that of Robert Erskine, you would save us all a great deal of trouble, and yourself a long detention in London, by letting us have it now.” The lawyer pondered this for a moment. Then he drew out and broke the seals of a grey envelope. In it was a half-sheet of notepaper. By to Robert Erskine on June Fourth had left everything of which he might die possessed to one Henry Carter, of 10401 Street, Calgary. “Alias Cox,” was Pointer's silent comment as he passed it on to Watts. Then he compared it carefully with a letter which he took out of his safe, the note found on Eames' body. The writing tallied. He handed the note to the lawyer, who read it with emotion. For he and the young fellow in whose name it stood, were about of an age, and had known each other as children.