“She’d been gone a little over six weeks, when an old gentleman came one morning, and asked to see a girl called Susan. That’s how he put it. He was very stern looking, and he threw me all in a tremble, somehow, with his ways; but I asked him down here, and then, little by little, he made me tell him pretty nearly all I’ve told you. I couldn’t keep anything back from him; he put his questions so fierce and sudden; and every time I hesitated ever so little, he accused me of prevaricating with him, and trying to deceive him. I could see his eyes glaring at me like coals of fire, and his face turned of a bluish white, so that I was almost frightened he’d drop down in a fit. But when he’d got all the story out of me, he stood up as straight and stern as if he’d been only twenty years old, and said, ‘No man of my name ever knew what disgrace was until to-day; and may the heaviest curse that ever fell upon a woman’s head come down upon my shameful daughter!’ He stretched up his two hands,--and I shall never forget him as he stood there with his white hair, and the bluish white of his face, and the dreadful glare in his eyes. Then he put on his hat and walked out of the house, taking no more notice of me than if I’d been a stock or a stone. I heard the front door bang to after him; and I ran upstairs to the parlour window, and saw him walking away towards the station; and that’s the last I saw of him.” “Can you remember upon what day this occurred?” “Yes, I can; for I’d had the parlour lodgers leave me the day before. It was the 29th of June.” The 29th of June! and on the 30th Oliver Tredethlyn had executed that will which made Francis master of thirty thousand a year. The young man knew now why his uncle had left him a great fortune, and found it still more difficult to feel very grateful to his benefactor. There was a long pause, during which vengeful thoughts had their full way in the breast of Francis Tredethlyn. “Can you tell me nothing more of this man,” he said presently,--“this scoundrel, who called himself Robert Lesley?” Mrs. Burfield only answered by a hopeless shake of her head. “He left some books, you say. Was there none among them that would give any clue to who or what he was?” Again Mrs. Burfield shook her head. “You’re welcome to look at the books,” she said; “there’s plenty of pencil-writing in them, but no name or address,--only initials.” She knelt down before a little chiffonier in a corner by the fireplace, and took out a few volumes, some handsomely, some shabbily bound, and placed them before Francis Tredethlyn. Upon the handsomely-bound books the initials “R. L.” appeared in a gilded monogram. Four of the volumes were German translations of some recondite classics; but there was a fifth upon which Mr. Tredethlyn fastened eagerly. It was a small flat volume, bound in sheepskin, and fastened with a brass lock--a very superior kind of lock. On the cover was written the one word “Journal.”