‘Robert J. Dalrymple Featherstone.’
When Simon Lock had finished the perusal of this document he passed his hand before his eyes. The dead man’s handwriting, although perfectly clear, was so fine that even the delicate shades of Simon Lock’s electric chandelier had not been able to prevent the august financier from feeling the effects of the strain; but the condition of his eyes was a trifle. He experienced a solid and satisfying joy—such joy as he had not felt for a very long time.
‘You have read it?’ he questioned Oakley.
‘I took that liberty, sir,’ said Oakley, who was now the old Oakley again—formal, dry, submissive.
‘And what did you think of it, Oakley?’
‘I thought, sir, that it might prove useful to you.’
‘Did you assume that I was the unnamed man against whom this wonderful Raphael Craig is directing what he calls his vengeance?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Ah!’ breathed Simon Lock. ‘I’ve just got this in time.’