What possessed Brinkley to examine the Prayer-book I cannot determine, but in after years he always averred that it was an inspiration. At any rate, he did open it, and saw that the fly-leaf was covered with writing, yellow, difficult to decipher, fast fading away. But what more particularly attracted his attention was a loose piece of parchment, fastened to the title-page with a rusty pin, and covered also with written characters. Fixing the candle on a nook in the damp wall, he inspected the title-page, and deciphered these words:-- “Christmas Eve, 1864, on board the ship _Trinidad,_ fast breaking up on the Welsh coast. If any Christian soul should find this book and these lines where I place them, if they sink not with their bearer (on whom I leave my last despairing blessing) to the bottom of the sea, or if God in His infinite mercy should spare and save the little child” (the book trembled in his hand, as he read. The writing went on): “I cast her adrift in her cradle in sight of shore, on a little raft made by my own hands. ’Tis a desperate hope, but He can work miracles, and if it is His will, she may be saved. Attached to this holy book are the proofs of her poor dead mother’s marriage and my darling’s birth. May she live to inherit my name. Signed, Matthew Thorpe Monk, Colonel, 15th Cavalry, Bengal.” The mystery was deepening indeed! At last Brinkley thrust the book and its contents into his pocket, and, after one look round, took the candle, and made his way up the rocks, and out of the cave. When he saw the light of day above him, he blew out the light, and crawled up through the aperture. Then, standing on the lonely sand-hill, he surveyed the scene on every side. There was no sign of any living soul. Carefully, but rapidly, he returned the trap-door to its place, covered it with the stones and liberal handfuls of loose sand, and walked away, taking care, for the first hundred yards, to obliterate his footprints as he went. CHAPTER X.--MYSTERIOUS BEHAVIOUR OF THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN. About this time Matt noticed a curious change come over her artist friend. He was more thoughtful, and consequently less entertaining. Often when she appeared and began chatting to him about affairs in which she thought he might take some interest, she had the mortification not merely of eliciting no reply, but of finding that he had not heard a word of her conversation. Now this style of proceeding would certainly have caused her some annoyance, but for one compensating fact, which put the balance entirely on the other side. It was evident that, despite the change, Brinkley’s interest in Matt was not lessening, nay, it rather seemed to be on the increase, and this fact Matt, very woman as she was, was quick to perceive. Very often, on looking suddenly at him, she found his eyes fixed wonderingly and sympathetically upon her. She asked him on one occasion what he was thinking about.