"You speak in a tragic tone of voice."
"I speak of tragic things. I told you that this was your hour of destiny. I told you the truth. This night will decide your future. You are a young fellow with your life all before you. You were born for enjoyment, for pleasure, for ease. You, unlike your uncle, who made all the wealth we are thinking of, are not a business genius; you are not a great master personality who can forge your way through difficult circumstances. You are not cast in that mould. But you can enjoy. You have barely felt your feet since you came into possession of great wealth, but already you have dreamt dreams, and seen visions. You have already made plans as to how you can suck the orange of the world dry. And to-night will be the time of decision."
Dick laughed uneasily. "How?" he asked, and his face was pale to the lips.
"Is there a photograph of Mr. Anthony Riggleton in the house?" asked Romanoff.
"Yes, I came across one the other day. Would you like to see it?" He went to a drawer as he spoke and took a packet from it. "Here is the thing," he added.
"Just so," replied Romanoff; "now look at this," and he took a photograph from his pocket. "It's the same face, isn't it? The same man. Well, my friend, that is the photograph of a man I saw in Australia, weeks after you got your wireless from Mr. Bidlake—months after the news came that Mr. Anthony Riggleton was dead. I saw him; I talked with him. He told me a good deal about himself, told me of some of his experiences in this house. There are a number of people in this neighbourhood who knew him, and who could identify him."
"You are sure of this?" gasped Dick.
"Absolutely."
"And does he know—that—that his uncle is dead?"
"Not yet. That's why I hurried here to see you. But he has made up his mind to come to England, and of course he intends coming here."