“Of course, I can only guess,” she hazarded at length, “but it would seem likely he was notified of his father’s death by one of the administrators, and doubtless told at the same time of his inheritance.  He was the only son, and there were no other near relatives.  It would be only natural for him to retain the old servants until he could come here and select others.”

“There is only one fact which opposes your theory,” I acknowledged, “otherwise I would accept it as my own also.  Coombs plainly threatened to confront you with Henley to test your claim to being his wife.”

She pressed her hand to her temple in perplexity.

“Even that would not be impossible,” she admitted reluctantly, “for he must have known of the Judge’s death even before—­before I left.  Only I do not believe it probable, as he was in no condition to travel, and had very little money.  Besides,” her voice strengthening with conviction, “those men who sent you here—­Neale and Vail—­would never have ventured such a scheme, had they been uncertain as to Philip Henley’s helplessness.  I believe he is either in their control, or else dead.”

“Then Coombs lied.”

“Perhaps; although still another supposition is possible.  Someone else may claim to be the heir.”

This was a new theory, and one not so unreasonable as it appeared at first thought.  Still it was sufficiently improbable, so that I dismissed it without much consideration.  She apparently read this in my face.

“It is all groping in the dark until we learn more,” she went on slowly.  “Have you decided what you mean to do?”

“Only indefinitely.  I want to make a careful exploration of the house and grounds by daylight.  This may reveal something of value.  Then we will go into Carrollton before dark.  I cannot consent to your remaining here another night after what has occurred.  Besides, we should consult a lawyer—­the best we can find—­and then proceed under his advice.  Do you agree?”

“Certainly; and how can I be of assistance?”

“If you could go back to the house, and keep Sallie busy in the kitchen for an hour; hold her there at something so as to give me free range of the house.”

“With Sallie!” she lifted her hands in aversion.  “It does n’t seem as though I could stand that.  But,” she added, rising resolutely to her feet, “I will if you wish it.  Of course I ought to do what little I can.  Why, what is this? a seal ring?”

She stooped, and picked the article up from the floor, out of a litter of dead leaves, and held it to the light between her fingers.  As she gazed her cheeks whitened, and when her eyes again met mine they evidenced fear.

“What is it?” I asked, when she failed to speak.  “Do you recognize it?”

She held it out toward me, her hand trembling.

“That—­that was Philip Henley’s ring,” she said gravely.  “Family heirloom; he always wore it.”