"It appears to me," Mabane said, "that you went plot hunting with a vengeance, Arnold."
Arthur was walking restlessly up and down the room, his hands in his pockets, a discontented frown upon his smooth young face. He stopped suddenly in front of us.
"I don't know much about the law, you fellows," he said, "but it seems to me that any of these people who seem to want to take Isobel away from us have only to go before the court and establish some sort of a legal claim, and we should have to give her up."
"That is true enough," I admitted. "The strange part of it is, though, that no one seems inclined to take this course."
Arthur threw down a letter upon the table.
"This came for you yesterday, Arnold," he said. "I haven't opened it, of course, but you can see from the name at the back of the envelope that it is from a firm of solicitors."
I took it up and opened it at once. I knew quite well what Arthur feared. This is what I read—
"17, Lincoln's Inn, London.
"Dear Sir,—
"We beg to inform you that we have been instructed by a client, who desires to remain anonymous, to open for you at the London and Westminster Bank an account on your behalf as guardian of Miss Isobel de Sorrens, a young lady who, we understand, is at present in your care.