On what terms the "Picklebeet Papers" were published, concern neither the reader nor myself; but, while remarking, _en passant_, that the book, owing to some extraordinary freak on the part of the public, never went to a "second edition," we will fix the hands of the city clock to suit ourselves. It is 4 P. M. Without further preamble, we will lead the reader (mine, not Mr. Hardwill's) to Mr. Burbank's law office, at which place the threads of our story become somewhat disentangled. We are not sorry at this, (we doubt if the reader is,) for there is a satisfaction in rounding off a plot--in coming to the last page, where the author can write "FINIS"--which no one but a scribbler may know. But this pleasure is not a little touched with regret, as he sweeps the carefully-moved images from the chess-board of his brain, and tells you in those five letters that the game is finished. The personages in the law office are not strangers to us, if we except the lawyer. Mrs. Snarle and Daisy, with their veils down, are sitting in the back part of the room, and Mortimer stands behind them, speaking in a low voice to Daisy. Edward Walters is seated at a desk, the screen around which prevents him from being observed by the first-described group. Mr. Burbank, a dark-eyed, large-mouthed man, occupies a table in the centre of the apartment, near which is a chair for Mr. Flint, who has not yet made his appearance. This was the position of the parties on Mr. Flint's entrance. The merchant gave the lawyer three bony fingers, bestowed a stiff, surprised bow on Mortimer, and glanced suspiciously around him, evidently not liking the company he was in. Mr. Flint glanced inquiringly at the lawyer. "As all the parties concerned in this meeting are present," commenced the devotee of Blackstone, "I will at once proceed to business. You are too much of a business man, Mr. Flint, to require a prelude to interrogations which will explain themselves." Mr. Flint looked very doubtful. The lawyer ran his fingers through a crop of shaggy hair with professional dignity. "It is something over twenty years since your brother, Henry Flint, died, is it not?" The merchant nodded. "He left no heirs--I believe," continued the lawyer, with a delightful appearance of hesitation. "He left one child," said Flint, nervously. Mr. Flint did not like the turn which the conversation was taking. "Ah, yes! A daughter, if I remember correctly. Let me see, Maude Flint was the name." (This slight dialogue caused Daisy's breath to come and go quickly.) "Maude Flint!" she whispered hastily to Mortimer. "Listen! M. F.,--the initials in the necklace!" "I drew up the will at the time," said Mr. Burbank, thoughtfully; "but my memory has been tasked with more important things." He turned abruptly to Mr. Flint. "What became of this child--Maude?" "Died," returned Flint, briefly, with an uncomfortable air. "And the property----?"