"No. Why do you ask? Did you?"
He ignored me absolutely for several moments. His whole attention seemed fixed upon the curling wreath of blue smoke which hung between us.
"He died, I suppose," he continued, "when you were about twelve years old."
I nodded.
"My uncle," I said, "gave me a holiday and a sovereign to spend. He told me that a great piece of good fortune had happened to me."
Colonel Ray smiled grimly.
"That was like old Stephen Ducaine," he remarked. "He died himself a few years afterwards."
"Three years."
"He left you ten thousand pounds. What have you done with it?"
"Mr. Heathcote, of Heathcote, Sons, and Vyse, was my solicitor."