"If, as you say," observed the doctor—"and I've not the slightest doubt you speak the truth, Tom—if, as you say, you found things as they are, there is something mysterious about it."
"I declare to you, upod by hodour," said Tom, "that thidgs were as they are whed I edtered the roob, add that frob the tibe Syl add I left it last dight, till I foudd the thidgs here as they are, I dever got out of by bed."
"Oh, I am quite satisfied, Tom," said the doctor, "as far at least as you are concerned; but it's strange—very strange! Just ring the bell."
The bell was rung and James appeared.
"James," said the doctor, "have you been in this room during the night?"
"Me, sir? No, sir.
"Now, speak the truth, Jib," said Tom, fiercely, "or I pitch you out of the widdow od suspiciod."
"Upon my word, sir, I haven't: I haven't as true as I'm alive."
"Very well," said the doctor; "that will do."
James then retired, and they looked at each other with varied expressions of doubt and dismay.
"It is," observed Sylvester, "of course, inconceivable that the skeleton could have got there by itself."
"As idcodceivable," said Tom, "as that he was the swell who was cuttidg about od the parapet."
"What is the meaning of this?" inquired Aunt Eleanor. "You speak of a person having been on the parapet. What do you mean."
"Since you know so much, dear," replied Mrs. Delolme, "I'll explain all to you by and bye."
"Well," said the doctor, "I can make nothing of it at present. Perhaps after breakfast some light may appear. Come," he added, "let us go down. Lock the door, Tom, and keep the key in your pocket."
Tom did so, and as they were going down stairs, he said privately to Sylvester, "Victibised agaid! Sure to have the luck of it! If there's ady luck stirridg, I'b just as safe to have it as St. Paul's Churchyard is to have the widd."
Now it strangely enough happened, that while they were at breakfast, the Rev. Mr. Rouse was at breakfast too, and it also happened that he had no sooner finished his first cup of coffee than Sylvester's letter arrived.
"London," said he, musingly looking at the post-mark; "from that kind creature of course! And yet," he added, turning to the superscription, "it is not her writing. Tut! bless my life; now whose hand can it be? I've seen it before!—I know the hand well!—well, now, that's very strange. The seal too—a boar's head—that is not her crest! But the writing!—that's the point! Now whose can it be?"
The reverend gentleman took up an egg—not conceiving that that would assist him; but he took up an egg and broke it, chiefly in order that his memory might have some refreshment. But no: that memory of his failed him: he could not remember whose writing it was, nor could he conjecture; but as it occurred to him, at length, that if he were
