“Because the manuscript may show that Sir Philip had some enemy, and who but an enemy could have had a motive for such a crime? Come, bring forth the book. You of all men are bound to be alert in every research that may guide the retribution of justice to the assassin of your benefactor.” “Yes, yes. I will offer a reward of L5,000 for the discovery. Allen, that wretched old steward had the insolence to tell me that I was the only man in the world who could have an interest in the death of his master; and he looked at me as if he thought that I had committed the crime. You are right; it becomes me, of all men, to be alert. The assassin must be found. He must hang.” While thus speaking, Strahan had risen, unlocked a desk, which stood on one of the safes, and drawn forth a thick volume, the contents of which were protected by a clasp and lock. Strahan proceeded to open this lock by one of a bunch of keys, which he said had been found on Sir Philip’s person. “There, Allen, this is the memoir. I need not tell you what store I place on it,--not, between you and me, that I expect it will warrant poor Sir Philip’s high opinion of his own scientific discoveries; that part of his letter seems to me very queer, and very flighty. But he evidently set his heart on the publication of his work, in part if not in whole; and, naturally, I must desire to comply with a wish so distinctly intimated by one to whom I owe so much. I beg you, therefore, not to be too fastidious. Some valuable hints in medicine, I have reason to believe, the manuscript will contain, and those may help you in your profession, Allen.” “You have reason to believe! Why?” “Oh, a charming young fellow, who, with most of the other gentry resident at L----, called on me at my hotel, told me that he had travelled in the East, and had there heard much of Sir Philip’s knowledge of chemistry, and the cures it had enabled him to perform.” “You speak of Mr. Margrave. He called on you?” “Yes.” “You did not, I trust, mention to him the existence of Sir Philip’s manuscript.” “Indeed I did; and I said you had promised to examine it. He seemed delighted at that, and spoke most highly of your peculiar fitness for the task.” “Give me the manuscript,” said I, abruptly, “and after I have looked at it to-night, I may have something to say to you tomorrow in reference to Mr. Margrave.” “There is the book,” said Strahan; “I have just glanced at it, and find much of it written in Latin; and I am ashamed to say that I have so neglected the little Latin I learned in our college days that I could not construe what I looked at.” I sat down and placed the book before me; Strahan fell into a doze, from which he was wakened by the housekeeper, who brought in the tea-things. “Well,” said Strahan, languidly, “do you find much in the book that explains the many puzzling riddles in poor Sir Philip’s eccentric life and pursuits?” “Yes,” said I. “Do not interrupt me.”