“But, Miss Brewster,” he urged, “that, you see, is impossible. Will you disclose Mr. Dunreath’s felony? Will you create a needless scandal and lose your fortune? No; if you will but settle this little business with me (the sum, of course, is but a mere bagatelle to a rich lady like you), the secret will remain forever buried in my bosom, and no mortal shall know what has passed between us. The moment you hand me your check for twenty thousand dollars, payable to the bearer, that moment you shall with your own hand burn these incriminating letters.” I reiterated that in spite of the danger of bringing ignominy upon the name of my old friend, I should consult my lawyer before taking any steps in the matter. “But I can’t wait,” he retorted almost fiercely, and there was a look in his eyes which made me start. My heart rose. Could it be that those terrible letters were only clever forgeries? He instantly recollected himself, however, and his tone assumed a touch of pathos. “Miss Brewster,” he said, and there was a tremor in his voice as he looked at me beseechingly; “my mother, whom I have not seen for years, is dying. The physician gives her at most only a month to live. Unknown to my father she has cabled me to return instantly. Ah, my sweet mother,” he murmured, as if speaking to himself, while his eyes were wet with unshed tears, “the moments are years until I see her. Oh, if I should be too late! And then—who knows? perhaps,—yes,—perhaps, if I may stand beside my mother’s deathbed, my stern old father may be reconciled to me—may bid me stay, and I may have the unspeakable comfort of sustaining his declining years.” I watched him keenly. If this were acting, it had been very good acting until now. But these last few words had a false ring in them, which even my unpracticed ear detected. With a mournful sigh he showed me two miniatures painted on ivory, one the face of a handsome, dark-eyed woman, the other that of a scholarly-looking man of middle age. These, he said, were the portraits of his father and mother, and as he returned the latter to its velvet case he pressed it tenderly to his lips. It was very touching, and I was half convinced, especially when my eye fell again on that curious handwriting whose peculiarities I knew so well. The man evidently saw that I was agitated and afraid that his story might, after all, be true. He continued:—