Certain facts were, however, plain, I argued. First, that he was wealthy was without doubt. Perhaps those big bundles of banknotes which he had compelled me to destroy before his death constituted his fortune. Perhaps he preferred to destroy them lest they fell into other hands. Secondly, it seemed certain that the woman now known as Mrs Olliffe had been arrested and convicted through some revelation made by him. Thirdly, this same woman was in active search of the whereabouts of the dead man's riches; and fourthly, it was more than likely that Harvey Shaw was really Arnold's friend and not his enemy, as the woman had alleged. Had not Arnold written to him in secret? Ah! What would I not have given for knowledge of the contents of that letter! I called at Lydford Hall several times, and was gladly welcomed. Whatever Shaw might be, he was with me perfectly candid and straightforward, and gradually I became on most friendly terms with both him and Asta. Often they motored over to Upton End and lunched or dined with me, while I, on my part, became a frequent visitor in those long summer days. But I confess my friendship had for its object the elucidation of the strange mystery in which I found myself enveloped. Asta was, alas! still inconsolable. Poor child! Time, instead of healing the wound caused by Guy's sudden end, only served to aggravate it. She seemed to grow paler and more sad each day. Sometimes I endeavoured to console her, but she only shook her head in grief and silence. To me she appeared unusually nervous and apprehensive. The least sound seemed to cause her to start and turn almost in terror. It appeared as though she had something upon her conscience--some secret which she feared moment by moment might be betrayed. One afternoon, while sitting by the open window of the smoking-room at Lydford, I remarked upon her condition to Shaw. "Yes," he sighed, "you are quite right, my dear Kemball. I've noticed it too. Poor girl! It was a terrible blow for her. She wants a change. I urged her to go abroad long ago, but she would not hear of it. Now, however, I've induced her at last to go for a motor-tour in France. We are starting next week, and go by Folkestone to Boulogne, thence by Beauvais, and, avoiding the _pave_ of Paris, by Versailles, Melun, Joigny, Chagny and Lyons across to Aix-les-Bains. Have you ever been there?" "No. It must be a very fine run," I said. "Then why don't you come with us?" he suggested. "I'm taking the sixty, and there'll be plenty of room." I reflected. The days were warm and bright, and I loved motoring. My own car, being only a fifteen, was not capable of doing such a journey. "Ah!" he laughed, noticing my indecision. "Of course, you'll come. Asta will be delighted. Do keep us company, my dear fellow." "Very well," I said, "I'll come, if you really mean that there'll be room." And so it was arranged.