"Really," my companion said, "I don't know what I'd do without Asta. She's all I have in the world, and she's a perfect marvel of discretion and diplomacy." "She's indeed very charming," I said, perfectly frankly. "I'm glad you find her so. She has plenty of admirers, I can assure you. And I fear they are spoiling her. But as I was saying, Mr Kemball," he went on, "I hope we now understand each other perfectly. Poor Arnold was such a dear and intimate friend of mine, and we were equally interested in so many financial schemes that it has puzzled me greatly that he should have sought an obscure burial as he has done, and that his affairs are not in the hands of some responsible lawyer. Did he mention anything to you concerning the terms of his will?" "He never breathed a word regarding it. Indeed, I have no idea whether he had made one." "Ah!" sighed my companion; "so like poor Arnold. He always was fond of postponing till to-morrow what could be done to-day. His will--if he made one--would be interesting, no doubt, for his estate must be pretty considerable. He was a wealthy man." I recollected the incident of the burning of the banknotes, and that set me pondering. "Do you anticipate that he made a will?" I asked. "I think not," was Shaw's answer. "He had a strong aversion to making a will, I know, because he feared that after his death the truth might be revealed." "The truth concerning what?" "Concerning a certain chapter of his life which for years had been very carefully hidden. The fact is, Mr Kemball, that he feared exposure!" "Of what?" "Of some rather ugly facts. And for that reason he carefully avoided making much explanation to you as to who he really was. He had reasons--very strong reasons--for concealing his actual identity." "May I not know them?" I asked very slowly, fixing my eyes upon his. "Some day," was the rather strained reply. "Not now--some day--some day. I hope to be in a position to explain all to you--to reveal to you certain matters which will hold you utterly dumbfounded and amazed." CHAPTER EIGHT. THE STORY OF THE CYLINDER. I was taking tea beneath the trees with my host and Asta, when there approached a tall, dark-haired athletic young fellow in grey flannels and straw hat. He was smiling merrily, and the sudden light in the girl's eyes when she saw him was sufficient to reveal to me that they were intimate friends. They grasped hands, while Shaw exclaimed in his slow deliberate drawl-- "Hulloa, Guy! I thought you had gone up to town?" "No. I had a wire which put off my appointment until Thursday, so I've come over for a cup of tea." Then she introduced the young fellow to me as Guy Nicholson.