“Yes; he died on the third evening after this was written. Here follows the whole story of the inquest, and a remarkable letter, too, signed 'T. Towers.' It is addressed to my father, and marked 'Private and Secret': 'The same hand which delivers you this will put you in possession of five hundred pounds sterling; and, in return, you will do whatever is necessary to make all safe. There is no evidence, except yours, of consequence; and all the phials and bottles have been already disposed of. Be cautious, and stand fast to yours,--T. T.' On a slip wafered to this note was written: 'I am without twenty shillings in the world; my shoes are falling to pieces, and my coat threadbare; but I cannot do this.' But what have we here?” cried Alfred, as a neatly folded note with deep black margin met his eyes. It was a short and most gracefully worded epistle in a lady's hand, thanking Dr. Layton for his unremitting kindness and perfect delicacy in a season of unexampled suffering. “I cannot,” wrote she, “leave the island, dearly associated as it is with days of happiness, and now more painfully attached to my heart by the most terrible of afflictions, without tendering to the kindest of physicians my last words of gratitude.” The whole, conveyed in lines of strictly conventional use, gave no evidence of anything beyond a due sense of courtesy, and the rigid observance of a fitting etiquette. It was very polished in style, and elegant in phraseology; but to have been written amid such scenes as she then lived in, it seemed a perfect marvel of unfeeling conduct. “That 'ere woman riles me considerable,” said Quackinboss; “she doesn't seem to mind, noways, what has happened, and talks of goin' to a new clearin' quite uncon-sarned like. I ain't afraid of many things, but I 'm darned extensive if I 'd not be afeard of her! What are you a-por-ing over there?” “It is the handwriting. I am certain I have seen it before; but where, how, and when, I cannot bring to mind.” “How could you, sir? Don't all your womankind write that sort of up-and- down bristly hand, more like a prickly-pear fence than a Christian's writin'? It's all of a piece with your Old-World civilization, which tries to make people alike, as the eggs in a basket; but they ain't like, for all that. No, sir, nor will any fixin' make 'em so!” “I have certainly seen it before,” muttered Layton to himself. “I 'm main curious to know how your father found out the 'pyson,'--ain't it all there?” “Oh, it was a long and very intricate chemical investigation.” “Did he bile him?” “Boil him? No,” said he, with difficulty restraining a laugh;' 'certainly not.” “Well, they tell me, sir, there ain't no other sure way to discover it. They always bile 'em in France!” “I am so puzzled by this hand,” muttered Alfred, half aloud.