“The secret of how he gained his wealth, you mean, eh?”
“Of course.”
“Ah, my dear sir, you’ll never discover that—mark me—if you live to be a hundred. Burton Blair took jolly good care to hide that from everybody.”
“And he was well assisted by such men as your self,” I said, rather impertinently, I fear.
“Perhaps, perhaps so,” he said quickly, his face flushing. “I promised him secrecy and I’ve kept my promise, for I owe my present comfortable circumstances solely to his generosity.”
“A millionaire can do anything, of course. His money secures him his friends.”
“Friends, yes,” replied the old man, gravely; “but not happiness. Poor Burton Blair was one of the unhappiest of men, that I am quite certain of.”
He spoke the truth, I knew. The millionaire had himself many times declared to me in confidence that he had been far happier in his days of penury and careless adventure beyond the seas, than as possessor of that great West End mansion, and the first estate in Herefordshire.
“Look here,” exclaimed Hales, suddenly, glancing keenly from Reggie to myself, “I give you warning,” and he dropped his voice to almost a whisper. “You say that Dick Dawson has returned—beware of him. He means mischief, you may bet your hat on that! Be very careful of his girl, too, she knows more than you think.”
“We have a faint suspicion that Blair did not die a natural death,” I remarked.