to each
other. In the first place, I must tell you that there are several
points in the story of which I am myself ignorant. I can only lay the
facts before you as far as I know them myself.

"My father was, as you may have guessed, Major John Sholto, once of the
Indian army. He retired some eleven years ago, and came to live at
Pondicherry Lodge in Upper Norwood. He had prospered in India, and
brought back with him a considerable sum of money, a large collection
of valuable curiosities, and a staff of native servants. With these
advantages he bought himself a house, and lived in great luxury. My
twin-brother Bartholomew and I were the only children.

"I very well remember the sensation which was caused by the
disappearance of Captain Morstan. We read the details in the papers,
and, knowing that he had been a friend of our father's, we discussed
the case freely in his presence. He used to join in our speculations
as to what could have happened. Never for an instant did we suspect
that he had the whole secret hidden in his own breast,--that of all men
he alone knew the fate of Arthur Morstan.

"We did know, however, that some mystery--some positive
danger--overhung our father. He was very fearful of going out alone,
and he always employed two prize-fighters to act as porters at
Pondicherry Lodge. Williams, who drove you to-night, was one of them.
He was once light-weight champion of England. Our father would never
tell us what it was he feared, but he had a most marked aversion to men
with wooden legs. On one occasion he actually fired his revolver at a
wooden-legged man, who proved to be a harmless tradesman canvassing for
orders. We had to pay a large sum to hush the matter up. My brother
and I used to think this a mere whim of my father's, but events have
since led us to change our opinion.

"Early in 1882 my father received a letter from India which was a great
shock to him. He nearly fainted at the breakfast-table when he opened
it, and from that day he sickened to his death. What was in the letter
we could never discover, but I could see as he held it that it was
short and written in a scrawling hand. He had suffered for years from
an enlarged spleen, but he now became rapidly worse, and towards the
end of April we were informed that he was beyond all hope, and that he
wished to make a last communication to us.

"When we entered his room he was propped up with pillows and breathing
heavily. He