Upon a thorough search with John Fayerweather, no trace of these papers was to be found in the cabinet; nor, to the astonishment and consternation of both, in any desk, trunk, drawer or closet in the premises of the deceased. The only conjecture madam or John could form in regard to the disappearance of these papers was, that either through accident or mistake, they had been left in their original place of deposit, and were now in the elder son’s possession in the little trunk. In the first vessel which sailed for London, therefore, intelligence was dispatched to Mr. Haliburton of the melancholy death of his old friend, and of the missing papers, that he might find means to convey notice to George, sooner than could be done from Salem. The destruction of the records came to the knowledge of Jemmy Boynton as soon as to that of Mr. Wendell, and the delay of the latter to have the deeds recorded anew, did not escape her notice. Jemmy was ever on the alert to seize upon every circumstance which might possibly involve the risk or loss of property to others, in the well-grounded hope, which he rarely failed to realize, of in some way or other turning it to his own benefit. Accordingly the old fox was not slow to suspect some substantial reason for such delay or apparent neglect on the part of so careful a man of business as Mr. Wendell was well-known to be, and he did not stop till he had found out the true cause. To arrive at certainty, he thought it would be best to make a visit of condolence to the widow, judging from her well-known simplicity, she would give him all the information he desired. And he was not mistaken. He took care to make his visit at a time when he felt pretty sure Madam Fayerweather would be alone. It was on a fine morning in June that Jemmy sallied forth. He had dressed himself in the best his wardrobe afforded; a suit of fine claret-colored broadcloth, which had been left in pawn to him years before by a needy French prisoner on his parole, and which had never been redeemed; a white satin waistcoat, grown somewhat yellow with age, and white silk hose with gold clocks, fitting tight to his spindle legs; all belonging to the same pledge. Possibly the finery of the jaunty Frenchman might have inspired him with some undefined notions of gallantry; for Jemmy was going to make a call upon a rich widow just six months in weeds. But if any airy visions fluttered about his heart and occasioned the smirk upon his withered physiognomy as he bent his way to her house, they were speedily put to flight on entering the parlor of madam, who manifested such unqualified discomfiture on seeing him, that the compliment which he had been framing during his walk, perished before its birth, and he felt called upon to account for his visit by the phrase of condolence he had previously conned over with much care. “Madam, I come to condole with you on your bereavement—’twas a sorrowful bereavement.”