Jasper on this particular morning, as he hurried off from the Harman house, felt less and less comfortable. He was sure, by Charlotte's manner, that her engagement was something very particular. He feared she was going to meet Mrs. Home. He came, with all his surmises, very far short of the real truth, but he was in that state of mind when the guilty fly, with no man pursuing. It had been an awful moment for old Jasper Harman when, a week ago, he had suddenly knocked up against that solitary, foreign-looking man. He had heard his voice and seen his face, and he had felt his own heart standing still. Who _was_ this man? Was he a ghost? the ghost of the long-dead trustee? Jasper began to hope that it was but an accidental likeness in voice and manner. For was not this man, this Alexander Wilson, named in his father's will, dead and buried for many a day? Had not he, Jasper, not, indeed, seen him die, but had he not stood on his grave? Had not he travelled up some hundreds of miles in that wild Australian country for the sole purpose of standing on that special grave? And had not he read name and age, and date of death, all fully corroborating the story which had been sent to him? Yes, Jasper hoped that it was but a very remarkable likeness--a ghost of the real man. How, indeed, could it be anything but a ghost when he had stood upon the man's very grave? He hoped this. He had brought himself almost to believe it; but for all that, fear and uneasiness were becoming more and more his portion, and he did not like to dwell even in thought upon that night's adventures. He walked on fast. He disliked cabs, and never took them. One of his great secrets of health was exercise, and plenty of it; but he was rather in a hurry; he had an appointment in town for a comparatively early hour, and he wanted to call at his club for letters. He reached his destination, entered the building, and found a little pile awaiting him. He turned slowly into the reading-room to read them. One after the other he tore them open. They were not very interesting, and a rapid glance of his quick, deep eye was sufficient to enable him to master the contents. In ten minutes he had but one letter left to read, and that was in a strange handwriting. "Another begging epistle," he said to himself. He felt inclined to tear it up without going to the trouble of opening it. He had very nearly slipped it into his pocket, to take its chance at some future time, for he remembered that he was already late. Finally he did neither; he opened the letter and read it where he sat. This was what his eyes rested on-- 10, TREMINS ROAD, KENTISH TOWN. SIR:--