e wore a
close-fitting wool hat, that flapped down and his clothes were
seal-brown in color, but much worn, and evidently old. I asked him
where he lived, and he said he was a stranger going West, on a
pioneering tour. Then I asked what ailed his face, and he pulled the
handkerchief over his left eye, and said he was partly paralyzed from
an accident. Just then, the eastern train blew for T----. He said he
wanted some cigars or a pipe, as he had lost his own on the way, and
wondered if he would have time to go out and buy some. I told him no;
but that he could have a couple of cigars from my box. He thanked me,
and took two, laying down a silver dime on top of the box. He put his
hand in the inside pocket of his coat, and pulled out an empty
envelope, twisted it, lit it by the coal fire in the grate, and lighted
his cigar. The train rolled into the station; he passed out, and I saw
him jump aboard the front passenger coach. He had thrown the paper, as
he thought, into the fire, but it slipped off the grate, fell just
inside the fender, and the flame went out. There was something so very
peculiar in his looks and manner, that I thought there was some mystery
about his movements. I picked up the paper, saw the writing on it, and
locked it up in my cash drawer. He had evidently been a very handsome
man, before his 'accident', but he had a jaded, worried, wretched look.
When a detective from Baltimore interviewed me, I told him all I knew,
and gave him the paper."

Again Mr. Dunbar drew closer to the jury, held up the former fragment
of envelope, and then took from his pocket a second piece. Jagged edges
fitted into each other, and he lifted for the inspection of hundreds of
eyes, the long envelope marked and underscored:-"LAST WILL AND
TESTAMENT OF ROBERT LUKE DARRINGTON." The lower edge of the paper was
at one corner brown, scorched, somewhat burned.

"Lucullus Grantlin."

An elderly man of noble presence advanced, and Mr. Dunbar met and shook
hands with him, accompanying him almost to the stand. At sight of his
white head, and flowing silvery beard, Beryl's heart almost ceased its
pulsation. If, during her last illness her mother had acquainted him
with their family history, then indeed all was lost. It was as
impossible to reach him and implore his silence, as though the ocean
rocked between them; and how would he interpret the pleading gaze she
fixed upon his face? The imminence of the danger, vanquished every
scru