"Not a word."

I remembered the packet which I had just received from the lawyer, and

I mentioned it to her.

"Open it now," she said. "I am interested--if you do not think me too

inquisitive."

I tore the envelope. It contained another envelope, sealed, and a

letter. I scanned the letter.

"It is nothing," I said with false casualness, and was returning it to

my pocket. The worst of me is that I have no histrionic instinct; I

cannot act a part.

"Wait!" she cried sharply, and I hesitated before the appeal in her

tragic voice. "You cannot deceive me, Mr. Foster. It is something. I

entreat you to read to me that letter. Does it not occur to you that I

have the right to demand this from you? Why should he beat about the

bush? You know, and I know that you know, that there is a mystery in

this dreadful death. Be frank with me, my friend. I have suffered much

these last days."

We looked at each other silently, I with the letter in my hand. Why,

indeed, should I treat her as a child, this woman with the compelling

eyes, the firm, commanding forehead? Why should I pursue the silly

game of pretence?

"I will read it," I said. "There is, certainly, a mystery in

connection with Alresca's death, and we may be on the eve of solving

it."

The letter was dated concurrently with Alresca's will--that is to say,

a few days before our arrival in Bruges--and it ran thus: "My dear Friend:--It seems to me that I am to die, and from

a strange cause--for I believe I have guessed the cause. The

nature of my guess and all the circumstances I have written

out at length, and the document is in the sealed packet

which accompanies this. My reason for making such a record

is a peculiar one. I should desire that no eye might ever

read that document. But I have an idea that some time or

other the record may be of use to you--possibly soon. You,

Carl, may be the heir of more than my goods. If matters

should so fall out, then break the seal, and read what I

have written. If not, I beg of you, after five years have

elapsed, to destroy the packet unread. I do not care to be

more precise.

Always yours,

"Alresca."

"That is all?" asked Rosa, when I had finished reading it.

I passed her the letter to read for herself. Her hand shook as she

returned it to me.

And we both blushed. We were both confused, and each avoided the

glance of the other. The silence between us was difficult to bear. I

broke it.

"The question is, What am I to do? Alresca is dead. Shall I respect

his wish, or shall I open the packet now? If he could have foreseen

your anxiety, he probably would not have made these conditions.

Besides, who can say that the circumstances he hints at have not

already arisen? Who can say"--I uttered the words with an emphasis the

daring of which astounded even myself--"that I am not already the heir

of more than Alresca's goods?"




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