“It must be about cousin Randolph,” Bob said, glancing at his sister. “I’ll go to the Doctor’s study, Mrs. Williams, if you’ll show me the way.” “Very good, sir. I’ll be back directly,” she added, “to see that the ladies have everything quite comfortable for the night.” Trevelyan followed the housekeeper through many passages and down a good many stairs, till she brought him to the door of Dr. Steele’s study and knocked, and then opened the door for him to go in. The Doctor was standing before the fire; when he saw Bob he came forward and moved a comfortable chair into position while he spoke. “I’m sorry to trouble you,” he said, “but I am so placed that I think it is my duty to ask your advice in a very important matter.” Trevelyan smiled pleasantly, and sat down. “If it’s my advice you want, I warn you that I’m not thought clever,” he said. “Unless it’s about balloons.” Dr. Steele’s face was very grave, and he paid no attention to what Bob said. “I understood at dinner that you were a distant cousin of Sir Randolph Trevelyan’s,” he said. “I am sorry to say that he is just dead.” “Dead! How awfully sudden!” The poor man’s despairing cry still rang in Bob’s ears. “He had an aneurism of the heart,” Dr. Steele explained, “and this last attack killed him. He fell dead as he reached the door of his room. I have two good physicians in residence here, and they came at once. He was quite dead.” “I’m exceedingly sorry to hear it,” Bob said gravely; “but I don’t quite see how I can be of use. I’m not his heir. There are several of the Lincolnshire people alive.” “Precisely. But do you know his story?” “Of course. His wife and child were burnt to death, and he went mad.” “That is not the point,” answered Dr. Steele. “They found the mother’s body, or what was left of it, but they found no trace of the child.” “Poor little thing! It was probably burnt to ashes. There was nothing to find!” “I’m not sure. There is a possibility that it may have been kidnapped, for you may remember that the house was found to have been set on fire by thieves, who got away with a large quantity of valuables in the confusion, and afterwards wrote to the family, offering to produce the child for a ransom of five thousand pounds. Sir Randolph had been in India and had not seen the baby for many months, and he was already in an asylum, and much worse than when you saw him this evening, before the thunderstorm. Babies a year old are very much alike, he could not have recognised his daughter, a large estate was involved, and a lunatic’s evidence is worth nothing, of course. The relations declared that none of them had ever seen the infant, and as a recognition was out of the question, their counsel advised them to pay no attention to the blackmailers. Thieves would be quite capable of producing a child as the heir, and of keeping some hold on it, in order to extract more blackmail when it grew up. Do you understand?”