“It’s a singular coincidence, to say the least,” answered Dr. Steele, “but I know more about Miss Scott at present than she knows herself. In communicating with her adoptive father I have begged him not to let her know anything till all is quite certain; but it will be impossible to conceal the facts from her any longer, since Sir Randolph is dead. The relations, who believe themselves the heirs, must be informed that his daughter has been found and will claim the estate. They must know that as soon as they know of his death, and I cannot put off writing to them.” “What can I do?” inquired Bob. “Do you know any of your Lincolnshire relations?” “Yes, I fancy I know most of them. They’ll show fight, you may be sure.” “Perhaps, if you explained the case to them, and showed them these copies of the more important documents, they would change their minds. Sir Randolph’s solicitors have been very active. We have the sworn evidence of the woman, who is still alive, and of Mr. Herbert Scott as to the date when the infant was left on his doorstep, and he has produced the baby’s frock, with the half-sixpence sewn up in the hem, and the woman has sworn to that also. Besides, the handwriting of the letters written to the family after the fire, offering to give up the child for a ransom, has been declared by experts to be that of the travelling photographer, of whose writing several specimens have been found in the village, on the backs of photographs he sold. There is also evidence that he disappeared on the night of the fire, leaving his van and all his belongings. In fact, everything was ready, and Sir Randolph’s solicitors were about to begin proceedings to establish Miss Ellen Scott’s identity as Diana Trevelyan.” “Nice name,” observed Bob. “Very. Are you inclined, as a member of the family, to run over to Lincolnshire and lay the case before your cousins? If they can be persuaded to give up their claim without a suit, a vast amount of money will be saved--and it can only end in one way, I can assure you. There’s not a link missing.” “All right,” answered Trevelyan. “Who are poor Randolph’s solicitors? I shall have to know the name and address.” Dr. Steele handed him the neat package of copies that lay tied up on the desk. The lawyer’s name was stamped on the outside of the first paper. “I suppose I had better say nothing to my sister and our friends?” said Bob in a tone of interrogation. “I think not. Miss Scott should be informed by the solicitors.” “She’ll have a surprise,” observed Bob, thinking of the blotched face and red nose of the pimping governess he had seen at King’s Follitt. “I’ll just tell my party that you wanted to inform me of poor Randolph’s death.” “Precisely. That will explain our interview.”