From the bottom of the tin box she drew out a folded paper. It was in Mr. Lane's handwriting, and was addressed "To the Executor." It ran thus: "There is a possible claim against my estate, of which it is imperatively necessary that I should speak. Five years since my old friend and school-fellow, John Graves, on the eve of his departure for Australia, placed in my hands, for safekeeping, his entire fortune amounting to thirty thousand dollars. His wife had died; he had no heirs, and he had made up his mind to take a long journey to occupy his mind, and if possible assuage his grief. 'I may never come back,' he said, 'and in that case, old friend, the money I leave with you becomes yours. I could not leave it better than to my old schoolmate and friend.' I was touched by this proof of his confidence in me and assumed the trust. From time to time I heard of him, but for two years no tidings have come of the wanderer. Whether he is still living I cannot tell. If dead, the property is mine. It will more than double any estate I may leave; but I cannot be certain. I sincerely hope that John is still alive. Though two years have passed, he is liable to return at any time and reclaim the sum he placed in my hands. Should this claim be made after my death, it will be the sacred duty of my executor to give him back his own. Even if he has lost the acknowledgment I gave him, this property must be given up on his proving his identity. There will still be left of my own property a sum sufficient to support those whom I leave behind me in modest style." This was the paper, signed by Ernest Lane, which Mrs. Lane read with frowning brow. It was the one drop of bitterness in her cup. "Thirty thousand dollars!" she reflected. "Why, that would leave me only twenty thousand. It would be insufficient to carry out my plans. Probably this man Graves is dead; but should he reappear it would be a terrible disappointment. The money must and shall remain in my possession! I will deny the claim if it is ever made. But should this paper be found—should it remain in evidence—this would be impossible. Better destroy it. It is the only safe way." She locked the box of papers and put it in the safe. The important paper she was about to take and dispose of when there was a cry of terror in the kitchen. Laying the paper on the table temporarily, she ran down-stairs to find that a fierce dog had made his way into the kitchen to the great alarm of the cook. Mrs. Lane was no coward. She seized a broom, and with well-directed blows drove the animal out. Then she went up-stairs to destroy the message from Mr. Lane. It was gone! In much perturbation, Mrs. Lane looked for it. The window was open, and it might have been blown out. With this idea in mind she went out on the lawn and searched carefully, but in vain; the missing paper was nowhere to be found. Mrs. Lane sank into a chair in dismay.