I related to him exactly what he wished to ascertain, whereupon he answered—
“You have certainly succeeded where I anticipated that you would fail, and your presence here to-day surprises me. Apparently you have overcome every obstacle, and are now here to claim from me what is undoubtedly yours by right.” He seemed fair-minded, yet I confess I was loth to trust men of his stamp very far, and was therefore still suspicious.
“Before we go further, however,” he said, standing with his hands in the wide sleeves of his habit, “I would ask whether it is your intention to continue the methods of the Signor Blair, who allotted one-eighth part of the money derived from the secret to our Order of Capuchins?”
“Certainly,” I answered, rather surprised. “My desire is to regard in every particular my dead friend’s obligations.”
“Then that is a promise,” he said with some eagerness. “You make that solemnly—you take an oath? Raise your hand!” And he pointed to the great crucifix upon the white-washed wall.
I raised my hand and exclaimed—
“I swear to act as Burton Blair has acted.”
“Very well,” answered the monk, apparently satisfied that I was a man of honour. “Then I suppose the secret, strange as it will strike you, must now be revealed to you. Think, Signore, at this moment you are a comparatively poor man, yet in half an hour you will be rich beyond your wildest dreams—worth millions, just as Burton Blair became.”
I listened to him, scarcely believing my ears. Yet what was the possession of riches to me, now that I had lost my love?
From a little cupboard he took a small, rusty old hurricane lamp, and carefully lit it, while we both watched with breathless interest. Then he closed the door and securely locked and barred it, afterwards placing the shutters to the iron-barred window, so that we were quickly in darkness. Was some supernatural illusion about to be shown us? We stood open-mouthed in expectation.