atitude," said she.

"A rare kind of gratitude," I replied.

"Is no reason given in the will?"

"Not a word."

I remembered the packet which I had just received from the lawyer, and
I mentioned it to her.

"Open it now," she said. "I am interested--if you do not think me too
inquisitive."

I tore the envelope. It contained another envelope, sealed, and a
letter. I scanned the letter.

"It is nothing," I said with false casualness, and was returning it to
my pocket. The worst of me is that I have no histrionic instinct; I
cannot act a part.

"Wait!" she cried sharply, and I hesitated before the appeal in her
tragic voice. "You cannot deceive me, Mr. Foster. It is something. I
entreat you to read to me that letter. Does it not occur to you that I
have the right to demand this from you? Why should he beat about the
bush? You know, and I know that you know, that there is a mystery in
this dreadful death. Be frank with me, my friend. I have suffered much
these last days."

We looked at each other silently, I with the letter in my hand. Why,
indeed, should I treat her as a child, this woman with the compelling
eyes, the firm, commanding forehead? Why should I pursue the silly
game of pretence?

"I will read it," I said. "There is, certainly, a mystery in
connection with Alresca's death, and we may be on the eve of solving
it."

The letter was dated concurrently with Alresca's will--that is to say,
a few days before our arrival in Bruges--and it ran thus:

"My dear Friend:--It seems to me that I am to die, and from
a strange cause--for I believe I have guessed the cause. The
nature of my guess and all the circumstances I have written
out at length, and the document is in the sealed packet
which accompanies this. My reason for making such a record
is a peculiar one. I should desire that no eye might ever
read that document. But I have an idea that some time or
other the record may be of use to you--possibly soon. You,
Carl, may be the heir of more than my goods. If matters
should so fall out, then break the seal, and read what I
have written. If not, I beg of you, after five years have
elapsed, to destroy the packet unread. I do not care to be
more precise.

Always yours,
"Alresca."

"That is all?" asked Rosa, when I had finished reading