"I got wet to the skin long afore you come out that house where ye was," said Mr. Stamps; "but I 'low to find out whar ye live." "I live about a quarter of a mile from here," said Latimer. "The brick house with the bay windows, opposite the square. Number 89." "I'd rather see ye in," replied Stamps, cautiously. "I might go into a house I do not live in," returned Latimer. "Ye won't. It's too late. Ain't ye gwine to say nothin', Mr. Latimer?" "What do you want me to say?" "Sheby's good-lookin' gal," Stamps said. "Tom's done well by her. Ef they get their claim through they'll be powerful rich. Young D'Willerby he's mightily in love with her--an' he wouldn't want no talk." "There is the house I live in at present," said Latimer, pointing with his umbrella. "We shall be there directly." "Ministers don't want no talk neither," proceeded Stamps. "Ef a minister had made a slip an' tried hard to hide it an' then hed it proved on him he wouldn't like it--an' his church members wouldn't like it--an' his high class friends. There'd be a heap er trouble." "Number 89," said Latimer. "You see I was speaking the truth. This is the gate; I am going in." His tone and method were so unsatisfactory and unmoved that--remembering Abner Linthicum--Stamps became desperate. He clutched Latimer's arm and held it. "It'd be worth money fur him to git safe hold of them letters. Thar was two on 'em. I didn't let on to Tom. I wasn't gwine to let on to him till I found out he'd go in with me. Them as knowed the man they was writ by 'ud be able to see a heap in 'em. They'd give him away. Ye'd better get hold of 'em. They're worth five hundred. They're yourn--ye wrote 'em yourself. Ye ain't jest like him--ye're _him_--I'll sw'ar to ye!" Latimer suddenly saw his mother's mild New England countenance, with its faded blue eyes. He remembered the hours he had spent telling her the details of the sunny days in Italy, where Margery had lain smiling in the sunset. He looked down the long wet street, the lamps gleaming on its shining surface. He thought of Baird, who would not return until the day on which he was to deliver a farewell lecture before leaving Washington. He recalled his promptness of resource and readiness for action. If Baird were but in the room above in which the light burned he would tell him! His mind seemed to vault over all else at this instant--to realise the thing which it had not reached at the first shock. He turned on Stamps. "You say there were letters?" he exclaimed, forgetting his previous unresponsiveness. "Two. Not long 'uns, an' wrote keerful--without no name. But they say a heap. They was wrote when he had to leave her."