‘Ah well, we go beyond him,’ said Mr. Thomson. ‘I daresay old Peter knew as little about this as I do. You see, I succeeded to a prodigious accumulation of old law-papers and old tin boxes, some of them of Peter’s hoarding, some of his father’s, John, first of the dynasty, a great man in his day. Among other collections were all the papers of the Durrisdeers.’ ‘The Durrisdeers!’ cried I. ‘My dear fellow, these may be of the greatest interest. One of them was out in the ’45; one had some strange passages with the devil—you will find a note of it in Law’s _Memorials_, I think; and there was an unexplained tragedy, I know not what, much later, about a hundred years ago—‘ ‘More than a hundred years ago,’ said Mr. Thomson. ‘In 1783.’ ‘How do you know that? I mean some death.’ ‘Yes, the lamentable deaths of my lord Durrisdeer and his brother, the Master of Ballantrae (attainted in the troubles),’ said Mr. Thomson with something the tone of a man quoting. ‘Is that it?’ ‘To say truth,’ said I, ‘I have only seen some dim reference to the things in memoirs; and heard some traditions dimmer still, through my uncle (whom I think you knew). My uncle lived when he was a boy in the neighbourhood of St. Bride’s; he has often told me of the avenue closed up and grown over with grass, the great gates never opened, the last lord and his old maid sister who lived in the back parts of the house, a quiet, plain, poor, hum-drum couple it would seem—but pathetic too, as the last of that stirring and brave house—and, to the country folk, faintly terrible from some deformed traditions.’ ‘Yes,’ said Mr. Thomson. Henry Graeme Durie, the last lord, died in 1820; his sister, the Honourable Miss Katherine Durie, in ’27; so much I know; and by what I have been going over the last few days, they were what you say, decent, quiet people and not rich. To say truth, it was a letter of my lord’s that put me on the search for the packet we are going to open this evening. Some papers could not be found; and he wrote to Jack M‘Brair suggesting they might be among those sealed up by a Mr. Mackellar. M‘Brair answered, that the papers in question were all in Mackellar’s own hand, all (as the writer understood) of a purely narrative character; and besides, said he, “I am bound not to open them before the year 1889.” You may fancy if these words struck me: I instituted a hunt through all the M‘Brair repositories; and at last hit upon that packet which (if you have had enough wine) I propose to show you at once.’ In the smoking-room, to which my host now led me, was a packet, fastened with many seals and enclosed in a single sheet of strong paper thus endorsed:—