"It seems to me," said my uncle, adjusting his spectacles and unfolding the paper, "illegible, or almost so. It has evidently been thoroughly soaked with salt water. Come here and see if your young eyes can help me to decipher it." We bent together over the blurred handwriting. The letter was evidently in a feminine hand; but the characters were rudely and inartistically formed, while every here and there a heavy down-stroke or flourish marred the beauty of the page. Wherever such thick lines occurred the ink had run and formed an illegible smear. Such as it was, with great difficulty, and after frequent trials, we spelt out the letter as follows:-- "The Welc . . . Home, Barbican, Plymo." "My Deerest Jack,--This to hope it will find You quite well, as it leaves Me at present. Also to say that I hope this voyage . . . _new Leaf_ with Simon as Companny, who is a _Good Friend_, though, as you well know, I did not think . . . came _courting me_. But it is for the best, and . . . liquor . . . which I pray to Heaven may begin happier Days. Trade is very poor, and I do not know . . . little Jenny, who is getting on _Famously_ with her Schooling. She keaps the Books already, which is a great saving . . . looks in often and sits in the parlour. He says as you have Done Well to be . . . _Wave_, but misdoubts Simon, which I tell him must be wrong, for it was him that advised . . . the fuss and warned against liquor, which he never took Himself. Jenny is so Fond of her Books, and says she will _teech you to write_ when you come home, which will be a great _Comfort_, you being away so long and never a word. And I am doing wonders under her teaching, which I dare say she will let you know of it all in the letter she is writing to go along with this . . . Simon to write for you, who is a . . . scholar, which is natural . . . in the office. So that I wonder he left it, having no taste for the sea that ever I heard . . . be the making of you both. I forgot to tell . . . very strange when he left, but what with the hurry and bussle it _slipped my mind_ . . . wonderful to me to think of, my talking to you so natural . . . distance. And so no more at present from your loving wife," "LUCY RAILTON." "Jenny says . . . will not alter, being more like as if it came from me. Munny is very scarce. I wish you could get . . ." This was all, and small enough, as I thought, was the light it threw on the problem before us. Uncle Loveday read it over three or four times; then folded up the letter and looked at me over his spectacles. "You say this cut-throat fellow--this Rhodojani, as he called himself--spoke English?" "As well as we do. He and the other spoke English all the time." "H'm! And he talked about a Jenny, did he?"