“Of course,” answered Dawson with a smile, his one shining eye blinking at me from behind his gold-rimmed glasses. “But his friendliness and gratitude never led him sufficiently far to reveal to you his secret. No. I think if you will pardon me, Mr Greenwood, it is useless for us to fence in this manner, having regard to the fact that I know rather more of Burton Blair and his past life than you ever have done.”
“Admitted,” I said. “Blair was always very reticent. He set himself to solve some mystery and achieved his object.”
“And by doing so gained over two millions sterling which people still regard as a mystery. There is, however, no mystery about those heaps of securities lying at his banks, nor about the cash with which he purchased them,” he laughed. “It was good Bank of England notes and solid gold coin of the realm. But now he’s dead, poor fellow; it has all come to an end,” he added with a slightly reflective air.
“But his secret still exists,” Reggie remarked. “He has bequeathed it to my friend here.”
“What!” snapped the man with one eye, turning to me in sheer amazement. “He has left his secret with you?”
He seemed utterly staggered by Reggie’s words, and I noted the evil glitter in his glance.
“He has. The secret is now mine,” I answered; although I did not tell him that the mysterious little wash-leather bag was missing.
“But don’t you know what that involves, man?” he cried, and having risen from his chair he now stood before me, his thin fingers twitching with excitement.
“No, I don’t,” I said, laughing in an endeavour to treat his words lightly. “He has left me as a legacy the little bag he always carried, together with certain instructions which I shall endeavour to act upon.”
“Very well,” he snarled. “Do just as you think fit, only I would rather you were left possessor of that secret than me—that’s all.”