r. That was God's will, to place it
in your power."

"It is not in my power," I answered, whispering in my turn, and staring
at it, in the strong temptation. "I have no right even to look at it. It
is meant for some one else, and sealed."

"The seal is nothing. I can manage that. Another drop of wax--and I
strike our stamp by accident over the breakage. I refuse to know any
thing about it. I am too busy with the other letters. Five minutes--lock
the door--and I will come again."

This was a desperate conflict for me, worse even than bodily danger. My
first impulse was to have nothing to do with it--even to let the letter
lie untouched, and, if possible, unglanced at. But already it was too
late for the eyes to turn away. The address had flashed upon me before I
thought of any thing, and while Mrs. Busk held it up to me. And now
that address was staring at me, like a contemptuous challenge, while the
seal, the symbol of private rights and deterrent honor, lay undermost.
The letter was directed to "H. W. C., Post-office, Newport, Sussex." The
writing was in round hand, and clear, so as not to demand any scrutiny,
and to seem like that of a lawyer's clerk, and the envelope was of thin
repellent blue.

My second impulse was to break the letter open and read it without
shrinking. Public duty must conquer private scruples. Nothing but the
hand of Providence itself could have placed this deadly secret in my
power so amazingly. Away with all squeamishness, and perhaps prevent
more murder.

But that "perhaps" gave me sudden pause. I had caught up the letter, and
stood near the candle to soften the wax and lift the cover with a small
sharp paper-knife, when it flashed on my mind that my cousin would
condemn and scorn what I was doing. Unconsciously I must have made him
now my standard of human judgment, or what made me think of him at that
moment? I threw down the letter, and then I knew. The image of Lord
Castlewood had crossed my mind, because the initials were his own--those
of Herbert William Castlewood. This strange coincidence--if it were,
indeed, an accident--once more set me thinking. Might not this letter be
from his agent, of whom he had spoken as my protector here, but to whom
as all unseen I scarcely ever gave a thought? Might not young Stixon,
who so often was at Bruntsea, be employed to call at Newport for such
letters, and return with them to his master? It was not very likely, for
my cousin had the strongest