“Yes, sir.”

“Do you remember what his habits were?  Where he lunched, for instance?”

Maunders reflected for a moment.

“It’s a little while ago, sir, since I made the inquiries.  As far as I remember, he did not lunch regularly anywhere.  But he went to the American Bar of the Criterion restaurant most days for a morning drink about one.”

“Oh, he did?  You made his acquaintance, of course?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, you might find him this morning, give him some lunch, and bring him round to see me at three.  See that he is sober.”

At three o’clock accordingly Mr. Walter Hine was shown into the inner room of Mr. Jarvice.  Jarvice bent his bright eyes upon his visitor.  He saw a young man with very fair hair, a narrow forehead, watery blue eyes and a weak, dissipated face.  Walter Hine was dressed in a cheap suit of tweed much the worse for wear, and he entered the room with the sullen timidity of the very shy.  Moreover, he was a little unsteady as he walked, as though he had not yet recovered from last night’s intoxication.

Mr. Jarvice noted these points with his quick glance, but whether they pleased him or not there was no hint upon his face.

“Will you sit down?” he said, suavely, pointing to a chair.  “Maunders, you can go.”

Walter Hine turned quickly, as though he would have preferred Maunders to stay, but he let him go.  Mr. Jarvice shut the door carefully, and, walking across the room, stood over his visitor with his hands in his pockets, and renewed his scrutiny.  Walter Hine grew uncomfortable, and blurted out with a cockney twang—­

“Maunders told me that if I came to see you it might be to my advantage.”

“I think it will,” replied Mr. Jarvice.  “Have you seen this morning’s paper?”

“On’y the ’Sportsman’.”

“Then you have probably not noticed that your cousin, John Lattery, has been killed in the Alps.”  He handed his newspaper to Hine, who glanced at it indifferently.

“Well, how does that affect me?” he asked.

“It leaves you the only heir to your uncle, Mr. Joseph Hine, wine-grower at Macon, who, I believe, is a millionaire.  Joseph Hine is domiciled in France, and must by French law leave a certain portion of his property to his relations, in other words, to you.  I have taken some trouble to go into the matter, Mr. Hine, and I find that your share must at the very least amount to two hundred thousand pounds.”

“I know all about that,” Hine interrupted.  “But as the old brute won’t acknowledge me and may live another twenty years, it’s not much use to me now.”

“Well,” said Mr. Jarvice, smiling suavely, “my young friend, that is where I come in.”

Walter Hine looked up in surprise.  Suspicion followed quickly upon the surprise.