t do you want to know?" she asked.

"I wish to know all that you can tell me about a certain paper, or
certain papers, which I have reason to believe Mr. William Murray
Bradshaw committed to your keeping."

"There is only one paper of any consequence. Do you want to make him
kill me? or do you want to make me kill myself?"

"Neither, Miss Cynthia, neither. I wish to see that paper, but not for
any bad purpose. Don't you think, on the whole, you have pretty good
reason to trust me? I am a very quiet man, Miss Cynthia. Don't be
afraid of me; only do what I ask,--it will be a great deal better for you
in the end."

She thrust her trembling hand into her pocket, and took out the key of
the little trunk. She drew the trunk towards her, put the key in the
lock, and opened it. It seemed like pressing a knife into her own bosom
and turning the blade. That little trunk held all the records of her
life the forlorn spinster most cherished;--a few letters that came nearer
to love-letters than any others she had ever received; an album, with
flowers of the summers of 1840 and 1841 fading between its leaves; two
papers containing locks of hair, half of a broken ring, and other
insignificant mementos which had their meaning, doubtless, to her,--such
a collection as is often priceless to one human heart, and passed by as
worthless in the auctioneer's inventory. She took the papers out
mechanically, and laid them on the table. Among them was an oblong
packet, sealed with what appeared to be the office seal of Messrs.
Penhallow and Bradshaw.

"Will you allow me to take that envelope containing papers, Miss Badlam?"
Mr. Gridley asked, with a suavity and courtesy in his tone and manner
that showed how he felt for her sex and her helpless position.

She seemed to obey his will as if she had none of her own left. She
passed the envelope to him, and stared at him vacantly while he examined
it. He read on the back of the package: "Withers Estate--old papers--of
no importance apparently. Examine hereafter."

"May I ask when, where, and of whom you obtained these papers, Miss
Badlam?"

"Have pity on me, Mr. Gridley,--have pity on me. I am a lost woman if
you do not. Spare me! for God's sake, spare me! There will no wrong
come of all this, if you will but wait a little while. The paper will
come to light when it is wanted, and all will be right. But do not make
me answer any more questions, and let me keep this paper. O