ry as
ever. She crossed the Banqueting-Hall this time without hesitation; the
events of the night had hardened her mind against all imaginary terrors.
"Now, I have got it!" she whispered to herself, in an irrepressible
outburst of exaltation, as she entered the first of the east rooms and
put her candle on the top of the old bureau.

Even yet there was a trial in store for her patience. Some minutes
elapsed--minutes that seemed hours--before she found the right key and
raised the lid of the bureau. At last she drew out the inner drawer! At
last she had the letter in her hand!

It had been sealed, but the seal was broken. She opened it on the spot,
to make sure that she had actually possessed herself of the Trust before
leaving the room. The end of the letter was the first part of it she
turned to. It came to its conclusion high on the third page, and it was
signed by Noel Vanstone. Below the name these lines were added in the
admiral's handwriting:

"This letter was received by me at the same time with the will of my
friend, Noel Vanstone. In the event of my death, without leaving any
other directions respecting it, I beg my nephew and my executors
to understand that I consider the requests made in this document as
absolutely binding on me.

"ARTHUR EVERARD BARTRAM."

She left those lines unread. She just noticed that they were not in Noel
Vanstone's handwriting; and, passing over them instantly, as immaterial
to the object in view, turned the leaves of the letter, and transferred
her attention to the opening sentences on the first page. She read these
words:

"DEAR ADMIRAL BARTRAM--When you open my Will (in which you are named my
sole executor), you will find that I have bequeathed the whole residue
of my estate--after payment of one legacy of five thousand pounds--to
yourself. It is the purpose of my letter to tell you privately what the
object is for which I have left you the fortune which is now placed in
your hands.

"I beg you to consider this large legacy as intended--"

She had proceeded thus far with breathless curiosity and interest,
when her attention suddenly failed her. Something--she was too deeply
absorbed to know what--had got between her and the letter. Was it a
sound in the Banqueting-Hall again? She looked over her shoulder at the
door behind her, and listened. Nothing was to be heard, nothing was to
be seen. She returned to the letter.

The writing was cramped and close. In her im