"I am not likely to forget it, father. It is the twenty-fourth of April: and Squire Denison of Heron Dyke is now seventy years old."
"Yes--if he is alive," said Mr. Denison, grimly.
The tone was significant, and Frank stared across the table at his father.
"Have you any reason, sir, for thinking that he is not alive?"
"I have reason to know that he was given up months ago by his medical attendant, and that he has never once crossed his own threshold since last December. I have reason to know, moreover, that there is something very inexplicable going on inside the Hall: and, remembering what sort of man my cousin Gilbert is, I feel sure that he would stick at nothing to keep me and mine out of the estate."
Frank was silent for a moment or two.
"How did you come by this information, father?"
"Oh, I put Charles Plackett on the matter a couple of years ago; not but that he knew for himself what a wily fellow my cousin Gilbert was; and Plackett has been following the scent ever since. He has employed an agent at Nullington, one Nixon, to keep his eyes open on Heron Dyke; and Nixon has done it, so far as outside vigilance goes, for he cannot get inside; and has sent up his reports to Charles Plackett from time to time. Perhaps you'd like to hear what he says?"
"Why yes, I should, very much indeed," replied Frank.
Charles Plackett--of the firm of Plackett, Plackett and Rex--was the family solicitor. Mr. Denison had the breakfast things taken away, and then produced a case of papers.