"True; yet how could Philip Henley know that he had inherited the property?"
She thought a moment seriously, a little crease in the center of her forehead.
"Of course, I can only guess," she hazarded at length, "but it would seem likely he was notified of his father's death by one of the administrators, and doubtless told at the same time of his inheritance. He was the only son, and there were no other near relatives. It would be only natural for him to retain the old servants until he could come here and select others."
"There is only one fact which opposes your theory," I acknowledged, "otherwise I would accept it as my own also. Coombs plainly threatened to confront you with Henley to test your claim to being his wife."
She pressed her hand to her temple in perplexity.
"Even that would not be impossible," she admitted reluctantly, "for he must have known of the Judge's death even before—before I left. Only I do not believe it probable, as he was in no condition to travel, and had very little money. Besides," her voice strengthening with conviction, "those men who sent you here—Neale and Vail—would never have ventured such a scheme, had they been uncertain as to Philip Henley's helplessness. I believe he is either in their control, or else dead."
"Then Coombs lied."
"Perhaps; although still another supposition is possible. Someone else may claim to be the heir."
This was a new theory, and one not so unreasonable as it appeared at first thought. Still it was sufficiently improbable, so that I dismissed it without much consideration. She apparently read this in my face.
"It is all groping in the dark until we learn more," she went on slowly. "Have you decided what you mean to do?"