When I had been at Velvet Hills just over six months, Bob Henderson rode in one weekday to have what he was pleased to call a serious talk with my cousin.

They were closeted together for more than an hour, and from the pitch of their voices, I thought his brother-in-law was trying to persuade him to do something he didn’t particularly want to do.

I heard all about it the same evening after Master Bob had gone.

It appeared he was urging my cousin to go down to Adelaide to be examined by another practitioner. He had heard of a herbalist, he told him, who had newly come to the City, and who was performing wonderful cures upon patients who had been hopelessly given up by the regular medical men of North Terrace.

My cousin didn’t want to go. He said he realised to the full that his case was hopeless, and he was tired of being pulled about. Besides, he dreaded the thought of the long, weary journey down the State, and the jolting and knocking about. He asked me what I thought about it.

Now, in my own mind, I knew quite well what I thought about it. Bob Henderson wanted to get him down to Adelaide for some purpose of his own, and didn’t care anything about my cousin’s health. It was quite possible some new quack had come to the City, but that was not the reason, I felt sure, for getting him away from Velvet Hills.

I naturally did not mention my surmise, and only suggested that whether he went or not, he ought to give the matter very careful consideration.

Bob Henderson returned to the attack on Sunday, and from that day forward, never left the subject alone. He badgered my cousin every time he saw him, and preyed on his nerves by telling him everyone could see he was getting worse and worse every week.

At last my cousin began to show signs of giving way, and taking the bull by the horns one Sunday about six weeks after he had first broached the matter, his brother-in-law announced positively that he should call for him in the waggon on the following Wednesday at noon.

My cousin tried all he could to get out of it, and struggled weakly to be left alone, but in the end, the weak nature gave way before the strong, and he finally unwillingly consented to go.

I at once offered to accompany him, but his brother-in-law again put in his word so strongly that, after hesitating a long while, he said there was no need, and I had better remain on the station.

They went off on the Wednesday, and the poor invalid looked so tired and ailing as they helped him into the waggon that we all quite thought we had seen the last of him, and that he was going to his death. But we were mistaken. They were away six days, returning on the Tuesday.

My cousin was in the last stage of exhaustion when he arrived home. If he had looked bad in starting, he looked ten times worse when he returned. He was so weak that he could hardly speak, and he had to be carried bodily to his bed.

For three days he seemed quite dazed, and we hardly got a word out of him. It required no very experienced eye to see that he had been drenched with opiates; indeed, he told us afterwards that he remembered nothing at all of the journey home.

For nearly a week both the manager and I thought he would never get off his bed again; but left quietly undisturbed, he slowly shook off the effects of the journey, and in about a fortnight was more like his old self again, only decidedly weaker and more frail.

Gradually, piece by piece, something of the happenings at Adelaide came out.

He had visited the herbalist, a Dr. Rutter, and the latter had turned out to be just as I thought — only an ordinary commonplace quack.

He had pulled him about a lot and sent him away with a huge packet of pills that Bob Henderson said would, for certain, reduce all the inflammation in a few weeks.

I asked my cousin what sort of man Dr. Rutter was, and what he was like to look at.

He didn’t answer for quite a long time, and then, bending towards me, said almost in a whisper:—

“That’s the curious part of it I don’t understand. I have no recollection at all of what the doctor was like. The person I seem to have had most to do with in Adelaide was a very tall, clean-shaven man, who seemed, as far as I hazily remember, to be always pressing a bell. I tell you, John,” he went on presently, “I am very puzzled, and I don’t like it. All the time I was in Adelaide I seemed like a man who was getting drunk.”

I could see plainly the matter was upsetting him by the way he was beginning to tremble, so I at once turned the conversation and offered to play to him.

But he waved my suggestion aside, and in a minute or two again referred to the herbalist.

“I tell you what, John,” he said, “I have a reason for being very curious, and yet I don’t like to hurt Bob Henderson’s feelings. He is always so very anxious about me. But still, I want to find out about this man Rutter, and I mean to, too. So next time you see Bob, just bring up Dr. Rutter casually, and ask my brother-in-law in front of me what he’s like to look at. You can easily pretend you think you know him, see?”

I promised, and right enough the following Sunday, when Henderson appeared as usual, I remarked casually to him during the course of the mid-day meal.

“By the bye, I think I must have met that Dr. Rutter of yours in Adelaide, about a week before I came up. Isn’t he a rather tall man, clean-shaven, with reddish hair?”

“No he just isn’t,” snapped Henderson rudely. “As a matter of fact, he’s exactly the opposite. He’s quite a little dark man, with a pointed beard, and in addition to that, he’s only been in the City a few weeks. So you’re quite mistaken this time, Master John.”

I just shrugged my shoulders and said nothing.

My cousin made no remark either, but I could see he was taking it all in, for he didn’t speak again during the meal.

He and his brother-in-law hadn’t seemed to hit it off quite so well, lately. There was a sort of strained relationship between them, but wholly on my cousin’s side. Ever since the return from Adelaide he had seemed to me rather resentful with Bob Henderson for taking him down to the City and putting him to all the fatigue and anxiety for nothing.

I don’t think Henderson noticed it at all, for he treated everyone at Velvet Hills with a more confident and more bossy air of proprietorship than ever.

Stevenson, the manager, positively hated him, but like me, he took care never to cross him. The only satisfaction he ever allowed himself in the way of expressing his feelings was when Henderson took himself off, as he did regularly, about four o’clock.

Then he used to stand on the verandah watching him go off, and when he was once fairly out of sight over the hill, he used to spit vigorously on the ground. It became quite a ceremony with him, and he always seemed to derive the greatest satisfaction from its performance.

The evening of the day I had questioned Bob Henderson about Dr. Rutter it set in wet, and by eight o’clock the rain was descending in torrents over the station.

My cousin, unusually for him, was not inclined for any music that evening, and we sat talking instead. He asked me a lot about my service in France, and the conversation gradually drifted on to my life in Adelaide, just before I had come up to him.

Now, I had never mentioned a word to him of my adventures with Tod McSwiney, but something prompted me that night to try particularly to interest him. He seemed to be so very despondent and down in the mouth, and it struck me suddenly to make a nice little interesting story for him of the eventful happenings of that week. So I told him all.

I told him of the ten pounds I had had given me, of my luck at the races, of my being followed, of my killing Tod McSwiney, of my being arrested by the police, and of the subsequent assistance I had been enabled to give them in catching the other murderer. I left very little out. I even mentioned Mary Vane, lingering perhaps a little bit unduly on what a pretty girl she was.

He listened, at first, with rather mild curiosity, and then with greater interest as the story was gradually unfolded.

When I had finished, and it took a long time to tell him everything properly, he had quite lost his depression and exclaimed enthusiastically:—

“Why, John, you’re quite a hero. So you killed the man without speaking a word to him, without any warning.”

“Oh, yes, Sidney,” I replied. “Why, bless your heart, he was nearer to me with his great heavy paling than I am to you now. If I hadn’t pipped him instantly, I should instantly myself have had his stick about my head and his knife in my throat afterwards. I hadn’t time to tell him to go away and be a better boy, even if I had wanted to.”

“Well, John, I’m glad you killed him and got the other wretch, too. But what about the girl? I suppose you fell in love with her, didn’t you?”

“She’s an ideal, Sidney, but her people are very high up in the world.”

“But not higher than the Strattons,” he burst out warmly. “Not higher than our family, John. Australia’s a mixed country, I know, but your father and mine, my boy, were the finest blood in the Empire. Not only was their family among the best in the old country, but they had the courage and the spirit to leave the safety and softness there and come out here to face dangers and privations and end in making this huge land great, as it is now.

“I tell you, John, again, the very finest blood in the world runs today in the veins of young Australia if they only knew it, for they all had sires or grandsires who, in courage and enterprise, were the very cream, the very top-notch of the countries they came from, overseas. And don’t you forget it.”

I had never seen my cousin enthusiastic before. He was quite transfigured. The cold, calculating, suspicious nature was, for the moment, at any rate, entirely wiped away, and I could see the outlines of a disposition that, under happier circumstances, might have blossomed in the breast of a warmhearted, generous man.

But the effort of his enthusiasm was too much for him, and he sank back exhausted upon the couch.

A little later he bade me rather roughly go to bed, for he himself wanted to sleep.

July and August passed away, and the first week in September the manager went off the station for a few days on some private business, and I was left in sole charge.

My cousin’s health was still about the same. He was suffering perhaps a little less pain, but he was obviously weaker than he was, even two months ago.

Bob Henderson came up as usual on the Sunday and was, I thought, more detestable than ever. I was beginning, however, at last to find my place more secure at Velvet Hills, and consequently, I did not allow Master Bob quite so much rope as heretofore; indeed, upon several occasions, I carried the plain speaking into his own country, greatly to his surprise.

That afternoon, he was silly enough to repeat the old fable that we never went into the fighting line in France unless we were half drunk, and expressed the opinion that he didn’t think I, myself, would ever have the pluck, sober, to shoot anyone in cold blood.

“Look here, Mr. Henderson,” I said to him grimly, looking him straight in the face, and intending to put it in hot and strong. “I’ve shot as many men in my time as perhaps you’ve shot rabbits, and it’s nothing to me to kill a man, don’t you make any mistake. If it were necessary, I could shoot you now without a tremor, and drag your body out and bury you, and come back into tea here without turning a hair. That’s what active service teaches us.”

The big brute didn’t like the way I spoke, and, I thought, looked a little white about the gills, but he summoned up the usual sneer he assumed when speaking to me, and remarked sarcastically:—

“Dear me, dear me, what a bloodthirsty fellow we’ve been entertaining all these months unawares! And I suppose, sir, you always carry a loaded automatic with you.”

“No,” I replied casually, “an automatic takes up too much room; but I’ve always got some sort of weapon on me.” And reaching back to my hip pocket, I produced the pretty little .22 that the Chief and Inspector had given me.

Mr. Robert Henderson looked rather as if he had trodden on a centipede, but he only scowled darkly at me, and turning to my cousin, pretended to ignore my presence for the rest of his stay.

When he finally cleared off a couple of hours later, he didn’t even give me his usual rude good-bye, but went off in a clumsy attempt at a contemptuous and dignified departure.

My cousin was very tired that evening, and we made him comfortable and left him to go to sleep at a much earlier hour than usual.

The next morning I was up at daybreak, and my duties on the station kept me away until nearly mid-day.

When I returned home, the old housekeeper ran out to me with a scared, frightened face.

“Mr. John, Mr. John,” she exclaimed breathlessly, “something’s happened to the master. I can’t wake him, and he’s snoring horribly.”

I ran in quickly. My poor cousin was quite unconscious, and breathing stertorously. He had had a stroke, and I saw the end could not be far off.

I knew nothing possible could be done, but at the same time thought it only right to send for a doctor.

One of the station hands rode off post haste to get a wire through from Pimba to Port Augusta. If we were lucky, I thought, it might be possible to get the doctor out by the evening of the next day.

It was a ghastly vigil I kept that night by the bedside of the dying man, but blood is indeed thicker than water, and all my heart went out to the poor sufferer struggling there for breath.

Hour by hour his breathing became harder and more laboured, and when the dawn broke softly over the hills, I waited, watching for the frail spark of life to pass away with the shadows.

But no; he lingered on during the day and was still breathing when dusk was closing down again and the doctor from Port Augusta appeared.

Dr. Rooke was a kindly old man, and shook his head sadly when I took him in to the patient.

“No hope,” he said at once. “It’s only a matter of hours; but you did right to call me, for I can ease the suffering.”

The end came almost on the stroke of midnight, but so softly and so gently that we hardly knew. One moment he was breathing faintly and the next he had passed without struggle, and without effort, to the Great Beyond.

I slept heavily that night. I was so tired that I dropped off at once, directly my head touched the pillow, but there was neither rest nor refreshment in my sleep, and I woke up tired and dispirited as could be.

The news had filtered round quickly, and early in the afternoon Bob Henderson rode down over the hill.

He was not alone, but had brought two of his men with him, evidently remembering the conversation of the previous Sunday.

Seeing him in sight, I purposely left the house to avoid meeting him. I could not trust myself to speak nicely to him, but in the presence of the dead I wanted to avoid all chance of a quarrel.

I heard later that he dismounted in a tremendous hurry and asked breathlessly of one of the hands standing by “if the old man were dead yet.”

But I was saved from the angry words I should have given him by my going from the house.

I went round to the home paddock and sat down under a clump of trees.

Now that the first shock had passed I wondered what was going to become of me. Had my cousin made a will I wondered, and if so, how did I come in.

The thought of a possible will had been upmost in my mind ever since their return from Adelaide. I suspected Bob Henderson of some underhand business, and looking back, his easy confident air of the last few weeks filled me with a sort of uneasy apprehension.

Even while I was thinking of him, I saw Master Bob, with his two companions close behind him, walking round, evidently looking for me.

They caught sight of me at last, and Henderson said something over his shoulder to the two men that made them laugh.

The three approached me, and the big bully looked at me contemptuously, with an evil grin on his dark face.

“Look here, Mr. John Stratton,” he said brusquely, “you’ve got to clear out of this; the place is mine now.”

“What do you mean?” I asked scornfully, but at the same time with a cold shiver running down my spine.

“Mean,” he snapped viciously, “what do I mean? Why, I mean that my late lamented brother-in-law, Mr. Sidney Stratton, has left me sole heir to everything he’d got. Lock, stock and barrel, everything is mine.”

“Oh,” I replied calmly, “you’re quite certain?”

“Quite certain,” he went on, “and you please take notice you’ve got to clear out before this week’s up, you, and that damned Stevenson too, when he comes back. I’ve put up with enough from you both in the last six months, but only to keep in with the old man. I don’t mind telling you that now.”

“Oh,” I said calmly again, “you’re quite certain, are you?”

“Yes, quite certain. It’s all down in black and white, in legal hands.”

“No tricks, Mr. Henderson,” I went on, delighting to irritate him. “No tricks. Everything above board, I suppose. No drugging my poor cousin, no making him silly, no visits to strange lawyers, nothing hanky panky? Come, come, you don’t look quite so confident now, Mr. Henderson, do you?

“Curse you,” he called out savagely, “if you’re not careful what you say, you’ll not only go out from here without a penny, but I’ll have the law on you too.”

“Don’t get excited, Mr. Henderson,” I said calmly, “don’t get excited. Where’s your precious will?”

“My lawyer’s got it, and you’ll see it, in good time.”

“Your lawyer — so ho! Not my cousin’s lawyer; but your lawyer! Doesn’t that look rather fishy, Mr. Henderson? Surely if everything were all right, my cousin would have given any will to the care of his own lawyer and not to yours, particularly, too, as his own lawyer lives in Adelaide.”

“Oh, chuck all this,” he cried angrily. “Cut it out. I’m not going to argue with you. I just tell you, I’m coming over here on Friday with my lawyer to take possession, and you’ll please be off the station then before sundown. Understand!”

I looked him squarely in the face and laughed. He turned round with an oath and went off with his two companions; but he’d lost something of his swagger, I thought.

I sat on for a long time after they had left me feeling as despondent as any man could be. Before the great brute I had put a good face on the matter, but underneath I felt anything but confident, I can tell you.

So it was turning out exactly as I had thought. He had got my cousin down to Adelaide under the pretence of consulting some doctor, and once there had plied him so strongly with opiates that he practically knew nothing of what he was doing. In that state he had got him to some shady lawyer, and between them both my cousin had no doubt put his signature to a will, of the contents of which he most probably knew nothing.

There could be no doubt I was right I thought, but how on earth could I prove it? Everything was after all only surmise, and any court of law would naturally hold it just as probable a brother-in-law should be sole legattee as a cousin, particularly so as the brother-in-law had been the dead man’s neighbour and companion for many years.

I knew I had frightened Bob Henderson, but I felt that was about all I should be able to do.

We buried my cousin next day; Bob Henderson not troubling to put in an appearance or send anyone to represent him.

That afternoon a wire arrived from the manager saying he was returning the following Friday, and giving me his address. I immediately sent a wire to him.

“Cousin — died — yesterday — Henderson — heir — am-leaving — here — Friday.”

Barely twenty-four hours later and I got a wire in return:—

“Sincerest — sympathy — on — no — account — quit — agreeable — surprise — for — you.”

My spirits rose at once with a bound. Stevenson was a most cautious man in all he said and did, and his wire in answer to mine could only mean, I thought, that the surprise had something to do with the inheritance of my cousin’s estate.

What else could it mean? Perhaps he had stumbled upon some evidence that would profoundly shake Bob Henderson’s claim to all that my cousin had left.

I waited with worrying impatience until Friday should arrive, and a dozen times that afternoon after the mid-day meal, went up to the brow of the hill to see if I could perceive anything of his coming.

I had sent two of the fastest horses on the station to meet him, and was only prevented from going myself by the thought that if I did, Bob Henderson himself would probably arrive in my absence, and install himself in possession.

At last, however, the manager arrived. He threw the reins over the steaming animals, and jumping down out of the buggy ran quickly up to me.

Shaking hands, he exclaimed breathlessly, “Bob Henderson’s not half a mile behind me. He’s come straight from Pimba too. He’s got three men with him, and one looks like a lawyer chap. This Johnny’s been in the same carriage with me nearly all the way from Adelaide. But let’s go inside. I want to talk to you.”

I told him all that had happened about my cousin’s death, ending up with a recital of the conversation that had passed between Bob Henderson and myself.

He heard me through without interrupting with any question or remark, then he said slowly:—

“Well, Mr. John, I was very much attached, as you know, to your cousin, but it’s no good making out that his death is anything but a happy release to the poor man. I thought a year ago he would never get well, and it was because of that that I first suggested he should write to you. I have something to tell you, but it will wait now for five minutes.” Then he added grimly: “I think Mr. Bob Henderson is going to have the surprise of his life. Ah, here they are!”

Bob Henderson had pushed open the door and was looking round the room with an air of confident swagger. Close behind him were the three other men, of whom Mr. Stevenson had spoken.

“Come in,” said the latter in a quiet business-like tone. “Come in, Mr. Henderson, and bring your friends in too.” Then, turning to me, he said apologetically, “Excuse me, Mr. Stratton, playing the host for a minute or two, but I was always your cousin’s business man, and in consequence know something of his private affairs. Now, Mr. Henderson, I understand from Mr. Stratton here, that you’ve come to take possession.”

“Who the devil are you?” said Bob Henderson insolently, “and what the hell has it anything to do with you? Still, if you want to know, I have come to take possession, and off you and young Stratton go packing, straight away.”

“Wait a moment, Mr. Henderson,” continued the manager, “please. Who says the place is yours?”

“I do,” said the tall, cadaverous-looking man standing at Bob Henderson’s side, “I’m Mr. Matthew Pellew, of the firm of Pellew & Barley, Solicitors, of King William Street, Adelaide. I have here a copy of the last will and testament of the late Sidney Stratton, of this place, Velvet Hills. In this will he bequeaths everything to my client here, Mr. Robert Henderson, of Vixen’s Plain.”

“Where was this will executed, please, Mr. Pellew?” asked the manager, very meekly.

“In my office in King William Street, on Friday, the 27th of July last.”

“Who drew up the will?” went on the manager.

“We drew it up — our firm,” was the answer.

“And who, please,” continued the manager suavely, “instructed you to draw up this will?”

For the first time I noticed a slight hesitation in the legal gentleman’s manner; he hesitated a moment and then replied sharply.

“Oh, come, come, sir, you’re cross-examining me. I’m not in the witness-box today, and it isn’t the custom of our profession to disclose all the secrets of their clients. The will is right enough and you’ll have to abide by it.”

“What date did you say?” asked the manager, again in the meekest possible manner.

“Friday the 27th of July last,” replied the lawyer.

“Then,” thundered Mr. Stevenson, in a voice that was in startling contrast to that he had hitherto assumed, “then, Mr. Lawyer, just look at this!” and he thrust a paper that he had suddenly whipped out of his breast pocket, right under the startled lawyer’s eyes. “Look at this,” he shouted, mimicking the latter’s monotonous tones.

“A copy of the last will and testament of Mr. Sidney Stratton, revoking all other previous wills and leaving everything to his cousin, Mr. John Stratton, appointing him sole executor, and dated, Mr. Lawyer; dated, Mr. Robert Henderson, Wednesday the 22nd of August last. Now what do you say to that?”

I have often thought later, in thinking things over, what a splendid picture a great artist could have made of the faces of us all standing there. What different and what varying emotions he would have been able to portray.

There was the manager, flushed and excited, triumphantly throwing down his trump cards, one by one. There was the lean-faced lawyer, with his thin lips pursed closely together, obviously staggering under the blow of a discomfiture he could not wholly hide. There was Bob Henderson, with his white pasty face, dripping with the sweat of a totally unexpected fear and dismay. There were the two other men, who looked as if they had been invited to a picnic and then had suddenly found themselves involved in a rough-and-tumble prize fight, where they were getting the worst of it. And lastly, there was myself, puzzled and half incredulous, and yet with the dawn of a great joy breaking over my face.

I tell you, for a few moments the room was packed with a tense interest, so deep that it might have been cut.

Then Bob Henderson broke the silence with an oath. “Damn you; it’s a forgery. It’s a put-up job. I say, it’s been done since the man died.”

“Done since Mr. Stratton died,” shouted the manager. “I tell you I landed that will in Adelaide ten days ago, with my late master’s solicitors — Gorham & Davis, of Nestor Chambers, Waymouth Street, and not only the will, but a covering letter also in the dead man’s own handwriting, setting down all the circumstances he could remember of that last visit to the city; and I tell you also, Mr. Matthew Pellew, the letter wasn’t pleasant reading. The Master of the Rolls is having a copy forwarded to him, and it is possible — it is just possible, Mr. Pellew, you may be asked to explain how it comes you happened to witness the signature of an obviously drugged man.”

“Bosh!” said the lawyer, but I could see he was shaking all over, “we don’t even know if this assumed second will, even if it exists, were properly executed according to law.”

“So property executed,” retorted my champion, “that Gorham & Davis told me on Wednesday the whole Bench of Judges couldn’t upset it if they tried for twenty years. So there!”

The lawyer muttered something about making inquiries, and whispering fiercely to Bob Henderson, half dragged the latter from the room, the two other men following, obviously with their tails very much down.

We watched the four discomfited adventurers mount back into their conveyance and drive away slowly over the hill.

For the last time, Mr. Stevenson spat vigorously as the buggy disappeared from view.

“Yes, Mr. John,” said the manager, as we sat late over our pipes that night, “I suspected something of the kind, the very moment your cousin returned from Adelaide. I tackled him about it when he felt better, and it made him prompt you to find out from Bob Henderson what this blooming herbalist was like. That put the hat on your cousin’s confidence in his brother-in-law. Then, you unconsciously brought the whole matter to a crisis yourself, by taking your cousin into your confidence about the matter of that Tod McSwiney and also by telling him about your love affair. It rankled his pride that you should be thinking you weren’t good family enough for her. The next morning, when you were out, he sent for me, and there and then we drew up his second will. To make no mistake, it was witnessed by four people — myself, the housekeeper, and the two overseers. Then, last week, when I was going to the city, I took it, at your cousin’s request, direct to his own solicitors, to make sure it was all right; together with that damning covering letter I spoke about. Oh, but they were a couple of beauties — that other lawyer and Mr. Bob. Why, they even had your poor cousin so drugged that he had absolutely to be carried up to the lawyer’s room to sign that will. I traced their movements all over the place in Adelaide, and even found the man who drove them in his car. Well, Mr. John, I congratulate you. It’s a fine inheritance you’ll have — much greater than you expect.”

I thanked my friend from the bottom of my heart, but he pooh-poohed all his part in the matter, averring he was amply repaid by the discomfiture of his dear friend, Bob Henderson.

I paid a hurried visit to Adelaide the following week, and was most politely received by my cousin’s solicitors. The senior partner, Mr. Gorham, made me a long prosy speech; the gist of it was that I was now a man of great possessions, and it would be a considerable time before they would be able to determine exactly how really endowed I was.

To my great astonishment I learned that in addition to Velvet Hills, I was the landlord of properties all over the place. Shops in Rundle Street and Hindley Street, private properties in Lower Mitcham and Toorak, two large warehouses in Port Adelaide, and several farms in outlying districts in the State. Also there was a very considerable sum invested in War Loans and shares in private companies.

“Your cousin,” concluded Mr. Gorham, “was in many respects a very fortunate man. He bought when values were low, and for many years had resolutely declined to realise on any of his possessions. Consequently, you will now reap the benefit of his tenacity. Altogether, Mr. Stratton,” he said, with his first and only attempt at humour, “I’m afraid you will have to pay succession duty on close on two hundred thousand pounds.”

I went out stunned and sobered by all that he had told me. It was strange to think I was a rich man, but it would be fascinating now to brood over what the future might have in store for me.

One thing I realised. I was nearer Mary now. Poor, and I should have had no opportunity to approach her, but well-to-do — however little she might be influenced by wealth she did not need — I should at least be in a position to meet her on equal terms.

I made discreet inquiries about the Vanes, and found they were away in Sydney and would not be back for about three months.

Mary was still Miss Vane.