"Mr. Deane!" he exclaimed hoarsely.
Deane turned his head. "Well?"
"There's no doubt at all about it," declared Mr. Sarsby, striking the little pile of papers with the back of his hand. "It's the man—it's Ruby's uncle! The date of his arrival corresponds, and the hotel is the one from which he wrote to Ruby."
Deane nodded. "I fancied that it must be the same," he said.
"It is the same," Mr. Sarsby declared. "What are we to do? Something must be done at once!"
"Exactly," Deane remarked. "Your niece, of course, must claim her inheritance—that is, if the man was really worth anything."
"Of course!—Of course!" Mr. Sarsby said. "Dear me, what an unfortunate business this all is! I suppose I must go to London with her, and London always upsets me horribly."
"I am afraid that you must make up your mind to that," Deane remarked. "As I said before, if there is anything I can do to help you, I shall be delighted."
"But you won't be there," Mr. Sarsby said. "You are going from here to Scotland."
Deane hesitated. "I might," he said,—"in fact I think that I certainly should,—go to Scotland by way of London."