'"My Dear Tom,—You will find your fortune between a couple of sheets of paper in the library.
'"Your affectionate uncle,
'"Reginald Moran, Earl of Chizelrigg."'
'I should doubt if that were a legal will,' said I.
'It doesn't need to be,' replied the young man with a smile. 'I am next-of-kin, and heir to everything he possessed, although, of course, he might have given his money elsewhere if he had chosen to do so. Why he did not bequeath it to some institution, I do not know. He knew no man personally except his own servants, whom he misused and starved, but, as he told them, he misused and starved himself, so they had no cause to grumble. He said he was treating them like one of the family. I suppose he thought it would cause me more worry and anxiety if he concealed the money, and put me on the wrong scent, which I am convinced he has done, than to leave it openly to any person or charity.'
'I need not ask if you have searched the library?'
'Searched it? Why, there never was such a search since the world began!'
'Possibly you put the task into incompetent hands?'
'You are hinting, Monsieur Valmont, that I engaged others until my money was gone, then came to you with a speculative proposal. Let me assure you such is not the case. Incompetent hands, I grant you, but the hands were my own. For the past six months I have lived practically as my uncle lived. I have rummaged that library from floor to ceiling. It was left in a frightful state, littered with old newspapers, accounts, and what-not. Then, of course, there were the books remaining in the library, still a formidable collection.'
'Was your uncle a religious man?'