The two men stood discussing the young French girl, Lisette, whom Hugh had met when in hiding in the Via della Maddalena in Genoa.

“I only hope; that she has not told young Henfrey anything,” Howell said, with distinct apprehension.

“No,” laughed The Sparrow.  “She came to me and told me how she had met him in Genoa and discovered to her amazement that he was old Henfrey’s son.”

“How curious that the pair should meet by accident,” remarked Howell.  “I tell you that Benton is not playing a straight game.  That iniquitous will which the old man left he surely must have signed under some misapprehension.  Perhaps he thought he was applying for a life policy—­or something of that short.  Signatures to wills have been procured under many pretexts by scoundrelly relatives and unscrupulous lawyers.”

“I know.  And the witnesses have placed their signatures afterward,” remarked The Sparrow thoughtfully.  “But in this case all seems above board—­at least so far as the will is concerned.  Benton was old Henfrey’s bosom friend.  Henfrey was very taken with Louise, and I know that he was desirous Hugh should marry her.”

“And if he did, Hugh would acquire the old man’s fortune, and Benton would step in and seize it—­as is his intention.”

“Undoubtedly.  All we can do is to keep Hugh and Louise apart.  The latter is in entire ignorance of the true profession of her adopted father, and she’d be horrified if she knew that Molly was simply a clever adventuress, who is very much wanted in Paris and in Brussels,” said the gloved man.

“A good job that she knows nothing,” said Howell.  “But it would be a revelation to her if the police descended upon Shapley Manor—­wouldn’t it?”

“Yes.  That is why I must see Dorise Ranscomb and ascertain from her exactly what she has heard.  I know the police tracked Hugh to London, and for that reason he went with Benton down into Surrey—­out of the frying-pan into the fire.”

“Well, before we can go farther, it seems that we should ascertain who shot Yvonne,” Howell suggested.  “It was a most dastardly thing, and whoever did it ought to be punished.”

“He ought.  But I’m as much in the dark as you are, Howell; but, as I have already said, I entertain strong suspicions.”

“I’ll suggest one name—­Benton?”

The Sparrow shook his head.

“The manservant, Giulio Cataldi?” Howell ventured.  “I never liked that sly old Italian.”

“What motive could the old fellow have had?”

“Robbery, probably.  We have no idea what were Yvonne’s winnings that night—­or of the money she had in her bag.”

“Yes, we do know,” was The Sparrow’s reply.  “According to the police report, Yvonne, on her return home, went to her room, carrying her bag, which she placed upon her dressing-table.  Then, after removing her cloak and hat, she went downstairs again and out on to the veranda.  A few minutes later the young man was announced.  High words were heard by old Cataldi, and then a shot.”