“Yes,” Paul explained. “I approached a subject, or I used a phrase, and suddenly it seemed as if an iron door was banged in my face, and he was now behind the door, and not the loudest knocking in the world would ever get it open. So I have come to you.”
“For information your father did not see fit to give you?” said Mr. Ferguson.
“Yes.”
“But Monsieur Ravenel had no doubt a lawyer in Paris and an agent in Casablanca, where he lived for many years, both of whom will be familiar with his affairs. Why come to me?”
“Because it is not about his affairs that I am seeking information,” said Paul, and he took a letter from his pocket-case and handed it to Mr. Ferguson. “This was written by your firm, Mr. Ferguson. It is one of the two clues to my father’s history which he left behind him. It slipped out of a book upon his shelf.”
“Certainly the letter was written by our firm to your father, Mr. Ravenel. But it was the last letter we wrote to him. It closed our connection with him. We never heard from him again; and the letter is as you have seen, nine years old.”
“Exactly,” said Paul. “Just about that time my father and I were in London together for a couple of months, and when I found that letter it seemed to me to explain why. My father was in London to arrange for the transfer of his property to France, for the final annihilation of all his interests and associations with this country.”
It was an assertion rather than a question, but Mr. Ferguson answered it.
“Yes. I suppose that you may put it that way.”
“Before that time, then, you were his advisers.”