more puzzled.
'The waiter at the hotel! Why, that's another forgery! Higginson must
have waited till the man was safely dead, and then used him similarly.
It was all very clever. Now, who are these people who really witnessed
it?'

'The first one,' Mr. Hayes said, examining the handwriting, 'is Sir
Roger Bland, the Dorsetshire baronet: he's dead, poor fellow; but he
was at Florence at the time, and I can answer for his signature. He was
a client of mine, and died at Mentone. The second is Captain Richards,
of the Mounted Police: he's living still, but he's away in South
Africa.'

'Then they risked his turning up?'

'If they knew who the real witnesses were at all--which is doubtful. You
see, as you say, they may have seen the rough draft only.'

'Higginson would know,' I answered. 'He was with Mr. Ashurst at Florence
at the time, and he would take good care to keep a watch upon his
movements. In my belief, it was he who suggested this whole plot to Lord
Southminster.'

'Of course it was,' Lady Georgina put in. 'That's absolutely certain.
Bertie's a rogue as well as a fool: but he's too great a fool to invent
a clever roguery, and too great a knave not to join in it foolishly when
anybody else takes the pains to invent it.'

'And it _was_ a clever roguery,' Mr. Hayes interposed. 'An ordinary
rascal would have forged a later will in Lord Southminster's favour and
run the risk of detection; Higginson had the acuteness to forge a will
exactly like the real one, and to let your husband bear the burden of
the forgery. It was as sagacious as it was ruthless.'

'The next point,' I said, 'will be for us to prove it.'

At that moment the bell rang, and one of the house-servants--all puzzled
by this conflict of interests--came in with a telegram, which he handed
me on a salver. I broke it open, without glancing at the envelope. Its
contents baffled me: 'My address is Hotel Bristol, Paris; name as usual.
Send me a thousand pounds on account at once. I can't afford to wait. No
shillyshallying.'

The message was unsigned. For a moment, I couldn't imagine who sent it,
or what it was driving at.

Then I took up the envelope. 'Viscount Southminster, 24 Park Lane North,
London.'

My heart gave a jump. I saw in a second that chance, or Providence, had
delivered the conspirators into my hands that day. The telegram was from
Higginson! I had opened it by accident.

It was obvious what had happened. Lord Southminster must hav