And it was a dilemma, for I had not found time to decipher what was on the threepenny bit, and so could not hope to find the hidden money. If I only knew what kind of a cryptogram Gabriel Monk had engraved on that piece of silver, I felt certain that in one way or another I could read the same. Failing my own capability, I knew a man in London who possessed a Poe-like talent for unravelling such puzzles. And for Gertrude's sake I desired to find her fortune, since Mr. Monk--now that he had nothing to gain, and knew that his daughter loved him no longer--might withdraw the money he allowed her. He might even sell the house and grounds, for though the income was entailed the property was not. Then Gertrude would be homeless and penniless until her father died and the five hundred a year by the entail reverted to her. No wonder I was vexed at the loss of the eye. On arriving at Burwain, Mrs. Gilfin informed me that Lord Cannington had been inquiring for me, and, failing my company, had passed the day in Weston's yard. I did not get to the inn until seven o'clock, so Weston, always working late, had not put in an appearance. Then I found--and to my great satisfaction--that Dicky had gone in his motor to Tarhaven with Cannington to dine and sleep at the Buckingham Hotel. The boy had left a note asking me to come over also when I returned, but I sent a wire from the village post-office, excusing myself on the ground of fatigue, and sat down to my dinner. Afterwards--about eight o'clock, in fact--I walked to The Lodge to explain my absence to Gertrude. She was in the quaint drawing-room, arrayed in a dinner dress of some soft, white, clinging material, and looked almost as pale as her frock. There were dark rings round her eyes, and a weary look on her face. Without a word she came forward to kiss me, and sighed as she laid her head on my breast. "What is the matter, my own?" I asked, kissing the soft dark hair. "I am so tired," she whispered. "I have had a white night, as the French call it, and all day I have been longing to talk to you. Why have you not been to see me, Cyrus? What took you to London? I was so disappointed when I received your note. I wanted you so much--so very, very much." "What for, dear?" "I made up my mind last night to tell you everything." "What if I know everything already?" Gertrude withdrew from my arms and looked at me in a frightened way. "What do you know? What have you learned?" "Dear," I took her hand and led her to a chair near the fire, "sit down, for I have much to tell you. I have been to London in answer to a telegram from your father." She rose from the seat in which I had placed her. "Oh," she exclaimed in a fright, "has he returned to England? How foolish, when----" She stopped. "When what, Gertrude?" I asked, looking at her keenly. "If you know all, you must know why I wish my father to remain absent from England," she replied, sinking to the chair with a white face.