What had Ralph Darnley been saying? Yes, it was all coming back now. Darnley had learned certain facts somewhere, bearing on the fortunes of the house of Dashwood. Surely there was nothing so wildly improbable in this, seeing that Ralph Darnley had passed the best part of his life in America. The late Ralph Dashwood, the original heir to the property, had lived in America, too. Of course, America was a large continent, but that was no reason why Ralph Dashwood and Darnley's father should not have been friends. Had not Ralph Darnley admitted that he had business in the neighbourhood of Dashwood Hall? Perhaps he had come to make money out of his information. But then the young fellow was a gentleman, and would not stoop to that kind of thing. Still, he knew there was no getting away from the fact, for had not Dashwood heard it from the younger man's lips? A means whereby it was possible to get rid of Horace Mayfield for ever! The mere idea sent the blood throbbing through the sick man's veins, and brought him in a sitting position in bed. That meant documents or papers of some kind; it could really mean nothing else. Dashwood remembered vividly now that Ralph had been standing by the old dower-chest in the corridor and that he had had a paper in his hand. So far as Dashwood knew, the old chest had not been opened for years. It was by no means a bad hiding-place. Perhaps---- Slowly the sick man dragged himself to his feet. He had promised Mary that he would lie quietly there till the morning, but he could not find it in his heart to keep that promise. Sleep was out of the question. Dashwood looked at his watch to find that it was only just half-past three, five hours before it would be time to rise. It seemed like an eternity. And all the while that fiend, Horace Mayfield, was sleeping under the same roof. Suppose he had been listening to what was going on. Suppose that he had had his suspicions attracted to the dower-chest! The mere thought was intolerable; it was impossible to lie there with such a torture praying on his mind. And the house was as still as death. Sir George lighted his candle, though the bright summer dawn was creeping up from the east and the birds were beginning to twitter outside in the garden. The long corridor was getting pink and saffron with the strengthening colour from the great window. And under it lay the object of the sick man's search. Here it was with the lid unfastened and a mass of papers on the top. The first document was long in shape, neatly folded, and bearing an endorsement in a legal hand. The paper was yellow and faded, but the ink was quite plain for the eye to read. Yes, here it was, right enough, the yellow paper that meant happiness to all and the full splendour of the house of Dashwood.