“There is no ‘but,’” I interrupted, “except that, having told you what I know, Mr Whichelo, I expect your full confidence in return.”
“And you shall have it, Ashton,” he exclaimed at once. “Oh, I can assure you, you shall have it.”
“Then perhaps you’ll tell me first,” I said abruptly, “how that will of your brother’s came to be found in the safe among the ruins of Château d’Uzerche after the fire. Had it not been found, you would, I understand, have been sole heir to the fortune your brother left to Frank Faulkner.”
“Yes, you are quite right,” he answered, with a quiet laugh. “I should have been. That will was stolen from my brother.”
“So I guessed. But by whom?”
“By Paulton and the Baronne, his companion.”
“Stolen by Paulton and the Baronne!” I echoed. “But in what way could they benefit by stealing it, as the money would have come to you had the will not been found? Why did they not destroy it?”
“Well—to tell the truth, they have a hold over me,” he went on quickly, “just as they have over Thorold. Probably they refrained from destroying it, intending to get Faulkner into their clutches.”
“I don’t follow you,” I said. “Even if they have a hold over you, as you say, they could not have benefited by you inheriting this money.”
“Ah! You are mistaken,” he answered. “They would have benefited considerably. Had I inherited that fortune, it must all have gone to them. I can’t say more than that.”