"Congratulate me!" I echoed. "What about?"
Gordon accepted the cup of tea which Mercia offered him. "About fifty thousand, I believe," he drawled. "No doubt there's a good deal more somewhere, if we can find it."
We all stared at him in frank astonishment.
He looked round at us, smiling again from under his curious, heavily-lidded eyes.
"You remember the excellent advice given to us in the Gospels, Mr. Burton—to 'make friends out of the mammon of unrighteousness'? Well, you appear to have been doing it unawares—that's all. Those papers which the amazing Mr. Milford sprang on us in court—the ones addressed to Horsfall, I mean—were Northcote's confession, and incidentally his will. He has left you everything."
I jumped up from my chair. "Good Lord!" I cried. "Are you joking?"
Gordon shook his head. "I never joke outside the House of Commons."
"But why on earth—?" I began.
"As far as I can make out," he interrupted, "our deceased friend's mind worked in this way. It was rather more than possible, of course, that you would be killed before the three weeks were up, in which case all Prado's land property, which he had been unable to sell would have gone to Maurice Furnivall, as the next of kin. This he was determined to prevent, for by then he seems to have quite made up his mind that it was Furnivall who'd given him away. He wrote out a full statement of how affairs really stood, and sent it to Horsfall with a note that it was only to be opened in the event of his death. As this statement claimed that he was still alive, and afforded pretty good proof of the fact, it would have been quite sufficient to hang up the settlement until he found it safe to reappear, or, at all events, to communicate with the court."
"But the will," I broke in, "the will?"