“Dick Dawson is one. If he had succeeded he might have stood in Blair’s shoes—a millionaire. Only he wasn’t quite cute enough, and the secret passed on to your friend.”
“Then you don’t anticipate that I shall ever discover the solution of the cipher?”
“No,” answered the old man, very frankly, “I don’t. But what of his girl—Mabel, I think she was called?”
“She’s in London and has inherited everything,” I replied; whereat the old fellow’s furrowed face broadened into a grim smile, and he remarked—
“A fine catch for some young fellow, she’d make. Ah! if you could induce her to tell all she knows she could place you in possession of her father’s secret.”
“Does she actually know it?” I cried quickly. “Are you certain of this?”
“I am; she knows the truth. Ask her.”
“I will,” I declared. “But cannot you tell us the nature of the information you gave to Blair on that night when he re-discovered you?” I asked persuasively.
“No,” he replied in a decisive tone, “it was a confidential matter and must remain as such. I was paid for my services, and as far as I am concerned, I have wiped my hands of the affair.”
“But you could tell me something concerning this strange quest of Blair’s—something, I mean, that might put me on the track of the solution of the secret.”