r for
the last time and laid it down.

He took up the second letter, which was addressed to his grandmother,
and read it through.

It set forth that the writer, Cuthbert Melcombe, being then in London,
had heard that morning the particulars of his young uncle's death at
sea, had heard it from one of the young man's brother officers, and felt
that he ought to detail them to his mother; he then went on to relate
certain commonplace incidents of a lingering illness and death at sea.

After this he proceeded to inform his mother that he had bought for her
in Leadenhall Street the silver forks she had wished for, and was about
to pack them up, and send them (with this letter enclosed in the parcel)
by coach to Hereford, where his mother then was.

"Why did you show me this?" said John in a low, husky tone. "There is
nothing in it."

"I found it," Valentine replied, "carefully laid by itself in a desk, as
being evidently of consequence."

"We know that all the other Melcombes died peaceably in their beds,"
John answered; "and it shows (what I had been actually almost driven to
doubt) that this poor young fellow did also. There is no real evidence,
however, that the letter was written in London; it bears no post-mark."

"No," said Valentine; "how could there be? It came in a parcel. THE
LETTER, John, will tell you nothing."

"I don't like it," John Mortimer answered. "There is a singular
formality about the narrative;" and before he laid it down he lifted it
slightly, and, as it seemed half unconsciously, towards the light, and
then his countenance changed, and he said beneath his breath, "Oh,
that's it, is it!"

Valentine started from the sofa.

"What have you found?" he cried out, and, coming behind John, he also
looked through the paper, and saw in the substance of it a water-mark,
showing when it had been pressed. Eighteen hundred and seven was the
date. But this letter was elaborately dated from some hotel in London,
1804. "A lie! and come to light at last!" he said in an awe-struck
whisper. "It has deceived many innocent people. It has harboured here a
long time."

"Now, wait a minute," answered John. "Stop--no more. You asked me to be
considerate to you. Be also considerate to me. If, in case of your
death, there is left on earth no wrong for me to right, I desire you to
be silent for ever."

He took Valentine by the arm and helped him to the sofa, for he was
trembling with excitement and surprise.

"T