in's letters. 'T was a wise precaution. Without it
we would have missed the clue to the widow's journal. For the old lady's
brain gave way when she heard of the widow's death, and had it not been
for a special stroke of good-luck on my part, we might have remained
some time longer in ignorance of what very valuable papers she secretly
held in her possession."

"I will read the letters," said Mr. Ferris.

Seeing from his look that he only waited their departure to do so, Mr.
Gryce and his subordinates arose.

"I think you will find them satisfactory," drawled Hickory.

"If you do not," said Mr. Gryce, "then give a look at this telegram. It
is from Swanson, and notifies us that a record of a marriage between
Benjamin Orcutt--Mr. Orcutt's middle name was Benjamin--and Mary Mansell
can be found in the old town books."

Mr. Ferris took the telegram, the shade of sorrow settling heavier and
heavier on his brow.

"I see," said he, "I have got to accept your conclusions. Well, there
are those among the living who will be greatly relieved by these
discoveries. I will try and think of that."

Yet, after the detectives were gone, and he sat down in solitude before
these evidences of his friend's perfidy, it was many long and dreary
moments before he could summon up courage to peruse them. But when he
did, he found in them all that Mr. Gryce had promised. As my readers may
feel some interest to know how the seeming widow bore the daily trial of
her life, I will give a few extracts from these letters. The first bears
date of fourteen years back, and was written after she came to Sibley:

"NOVEMBER 8, 1867.--In the same town! Within a
stone's throw of the court-house, where, they tell
me, his business will soon take him almost every
day! Isn't it a triumph? and am I not to be
congratulated upon my bravery in coming here? He
hasn't seen me yet, but I have seen _him_. I crept
out of the house at nightfall on purpose. He was
sauntering down the street and he looked--it makes
my blood boil to think of it--he looked _happy_."

"NOVEMBER 10, 1867.--Clemmens, Clemmens--that is
my name, and I have taken the title of widow. What
a fate for a woman with a husband in the next
street! He saw _me_ to-day. I met him in the open
square, and I looked him right in the face. How he
did quail!