“What inheritance?”
“Well, the information it is my pleasure to communicate will undoubtedly cause you mingled pain and satisfaction. Briefly, your brother, Douglas Trethowen, is dead, and—”
“What!” cried Hugh, starting to his feet in amazement. “You’re humbugging me!”
“I repeat, your brother is dead,” resumed the old solicitor calmly, looking intently into the face of the man before him. “In consequence of that event you inherit the whole of the estate.”
“Good heavens, is this true, Graham?” he asked breathlessly.
“It is. Therefore I don’t think you need trouble yourself over creditors any longer. You can now pay, and wipe them out.”
The old man laughed at the effect his words had produced, for Hugh Trethowen was standing in mute astonishment.
“But how do you know Douglas is dead?” he asked.
“There is little doubt of it,” answered Mr Graham coolly. “Read this,” and he handed him a newspaper cutting.
Hugh scanned it eagerly, with an expression of abject amazement. The statement was to the effect that it had just transpired that the man found murdered in an omnibus at Charing Cross had been identified as Mr Douglas Trethowen, of Coombe Hall, Cornwall. Upon the body some cards and letters had been found, which, for some unaccountable reason, had at first been kept secret by the police.