“On board the Mary Crowle in the port of Antwerp. He was at sea, like myself. But why do you wish to know all this?”
“Because,” answered Reggie, “Burton Blair is dead, and his secret has been bequeathed to my friend here, Mr Gilbert Greenwood.”
“Burton Blair dead!” cried the old man, jumping to his feet as though he had received a shock. “Burton dead! Does Dicky Dawson know this?”
“Yes, and he is in London,” I replied.
“Ah!” he ejaculated, with impatience, as though the premature knowledge held by the man Dawson had upset all his plans. “Who told him? How the devil did he know?”
I had to confess ignorance, but in reply to his demand I deplored the tragic suddenness of our friend’s decease, and how I had been left in possession of the pack of cards upon which the cipher had been written.
“Have you any idea what his secret really was?” asked the wiry old fellow. “I mean of where his great wealth came from?”
“None whatever,” was my reply. “Perhaps you can tell us something?”
“No,” he snapped, “I can’t. He became suddenly rich, although only a month or so before he was on tramp and starving. He found me and I gave him certain information for which I was afterwards well repaid. It was this information, he told me, which formed the key to the secret.”
“Was it anything to do with this pack of cards and the cipher?” I inquired eagerly.