"But the great mystery," I said, addressing Faulkner, "is not yet solved. How on earth did Whichelo's will, leaving you this fortune, come to be in the safe in Chateau d'Uzerche, in the Basses Alpes? When did Whichelo die?" "Four months ago. The lawyers distinctly remember him making a will, but he had never returned it to them, and, since his death, they had been trying to find it. They even advertised for it." "To whom would his fortune have gone, had he died intestate?" I inquired suddenly. "To his younger brother, Henry. From what the lawyers tell me, this brother of his must be a peculiar man. His life appears to be a mystery. He is, however, known to be intimate with your friend, Sir Charles Thorold. Sir Charles and he were in Mexico together ten years ago, the lawyers tell me, and were there again about three years ago." "Who are the lawyers who wrote to you?" something prompted me to ask. "You mean about the will? Oh, a firm in Lincoln's Inn, Spink and Peters." Instantly I thought of old Taylor. "Ah," I said, "I have heard of them. Thorold has had some business dealings with them. By the way--who opened the safe?" "The French police. It seems, that since the fire, neither Dago Paulton nor the Baronne de Coudron have shown any signs of life. Even the insurance people have not been written to by them." "Paulton and the Baronne are probably afraid of being arrested," I said at once. We talked a little longer, but Faulkner seemed unable to throw any further light on the mystery of the will being found in the safe, and the lawyers were equally in the dark. Probably they would never have heard of the will had the French police not communicated with them. "Oh, I have another bit of news for you," Faulkner said suddenly. "Sir Charles Thorold is to return to Houghton." "My father going back to Houghton!" Vera exclaimed, amazed. "Why, who told you that? I've heard nothing of it." "Read it in the newspaper this morning," Faulkner answered. "I have the paper here--in my pocket." He tugged out of his coat-pocket a copy of a morning paper, unfolded it, and presently found the announcement. "There it is," he said, passing the paper to her, with his finger on the paragraph. The announcement ran as follows-- "We are able to state that Sir Charles and Lady Thorold have decided to return to their country residence, Houghton Park, in Rutland, which has been vacant since the mysterious affair when the body of Sir Charles' butler was discovered in the lake at Houghton, and the chauffeur from Oakham was shot dead by an unknown assassin. The news is creating considerable interest throughout the county." "What an astonishing thing!" I exclaimed. "Really, one may cease being surprised at anything. I wonder how `the county' will receive them. I prophecy that the majority of Rutland society will cut them dead, after what has happened."