o, decidedly it was not Mr. Romaine, to whom"--with another glance at
the letter--"I perceive that you are writing for explanations. And since
you are preparing to ask how on earth I traced you to this rather
unsavoury den, permit me to inform you that a--b spells 'ab,' and that
Bow Street, when on the track of a criminal, does not neglect to open
his correspondence."

I felt my hand tremble as it gripped the top rail of my chair, but I
managed to command the voice to answer, coldly enough:

"One moment, Monsieur le Vicomte, before I do myself the pleasure of
pitching you out of window. You have detained me these five days in
Paris, and have done so, you give me to understand, by the simple
expedient of a lie. So far, so good; will you do me the favour to
complete the interesting self-exposure, and inform me of your reasons?"

"With all the pleasure in life. My plans were not ready, a little detail
wanting, that is all. It is now supplied." He took a chair, seated
himself at the table, and drew a folded paper from his breast-pocket.
"It will be news to you perhaps, that our uncle--our lamented uncle, if
you choose--is dead these three weeks."

"Rest his soul!"

"Forgive me if I stop short of that pious hope." Alain hesitated, let
his venom get the better of him, and spat out on his uncle's memory an
obscene curse which only betrayed the essential weakness of the man.
Recovering himself, he went on: "I need not recall to you a certain
scene (I confess too theatrical for my taste), arranged by the lawyer at
his bedside; nor need I help you to an inkling of the contents of his
last will. But possibly it may have slipped your memory that I gave
Romaine fair warning. I promised him that I would raise the question of
undue influence, and that I had my witnesses ready. I have added to them
since; but I own to you that my case will be the stronger when you have
obligingly signed the paper which I have the honour to submit to you."
And he tossed it, unopened, across the table.

I picked it up and unfolded it:--"_I, the Viscount Anne de Keroual de
Saint-Yves, formerly serving under the name of Champdivers in the
Buonapartist army, and later under that name a prisoner of war in the
Castle of Edinburgh, hereby state that I had neither knowledge of my
uncle the Count de Keroual de Saint-Yves, nor expectations from him, nor
was owned by him, until sought out by Mr. Daniel Romaine, in the Castle
of Edinburgh, by him supplied wit