"Never set eyes on her that I know of," replied Mr. Lindsey. "But go on."
"Well, of course, there was no doubt of Sir Gilbert's identity," continued Mr. Portlethorpe; "and as there was also no doubt that Sir Alexander had died intestate, we at once began to put matters right. Sir Gilbert, of course, came into the whole of the real estate, and he and Mrs. Ralston shared the personalty—which, by-the-by, was considerable: they both got nearly a hundred thousand each, in cash. And—there you are!"
"That all?" asked Mr. Lindsey.
Mr. Portlethorpe hesitated a moment—then he glanced at me.
"Moneylaws is safe at a secret," said Mr. Lindsey. "If it is a secret."
"Well, then," answered Mr. Portlethorpe, "it's not quite all. There is a circumstance which has—I can't exactly say bothered—but has somewhat disturbed me. Sir Gilbert Carstairs has now been in possession of his estates for a little over a year, and during that time he has sold nearly every yard of them except Hathercleugh!"
Mr. Lindsey whistled. It was the first symptom of astonishment that he had manifested, and I glanced quickly at him and saw a look of indescribable intelligence and almost undeniable cunning cross his face. But it went as swiftly as it came, and he merely nodded, as if in surprise.
"Aye!" he exclaimed. "Quick work, Portlethorpe."
"Oh, he gave good reasons!" answered Mr. Portlethorpe. "He said, from the first, that he meant to do it—he wanted, and his wife wanted too, to get rid of these small and detached Northern properties, and buy a really fine one in the South of England, keeping Hathercleugh as a sort of holiday seat. He'd no intention of selling that, at any time. But—there's the fact!—he's sold pretty nearly everything else."
"I never heard of these sales of land," remarked Mr. Lindsey.