Unbuttoning his vest, he brought forth a curious-looking key, which hung by a narrow ribbon from his neck. With this he solemnly unlocked the box, and having thrown the lid back, laid it again upon the table. ’Twas lined with purple velvet, and, so far as I could see, contained two separate papers neatly tied with silk. The undermost of these he took out first and laid it on the table. "Read that," he said, "and tell me what you think of it." Greatly wondering, I undid the cord and scanned the contents of the paper. Then my hand shook, for this is what I read: "Know all men, that our eldest and well-beloved child, James, Duke of Monmouth, is our rightful heir, in proof whereof we herewith give the marriage contract made between his mother, Lucy Walters, and ourselves. "Given at our Palace of Whitehall, this sixteenth day of August, in the Year of Grace 1679. "CHARLES R." "Well, what think you of it?" asked my father, as our eyes met. "Why," I answered eagerly, "it proves exactly what I said: that Monmouth is the rightful King of England." "Ah! you say so," quoth my father grimly. "Now read this." This was none other than the marriage contract mentioned in the foregoing letter. ’Twas dated from Cologne, set forth every detail of the matter, and was also signed by Charles. "Well, and what now?" asked my father gloatingly, as I laid the parchment on the table. "Well, ’tis clear as any pikestaff," I replied. "Monmouth should be King without a question." "Ah! you think so," said my father shrewdly. "Small wonder either; but be not too hasty in your judgments, Michael. Now read that," he added, handing me the final paper with a glowing look of triumph. This writing was my father’s well-known hand, and ’tis small wonder that I read it with amazement; for this is how it ran: "I, Gilbert Fane, of The Havering, by Lyme, in the County of Dorset, writing with full knowledge of the matter, do hereby solemnly declare the documents inside this Box to be rank forgeries. "GILBERT FANE." When, dumbfounded and bewildered, I raised my eyes from this amazing statement ’twas to find my father’s fixed upon me with a hungry look. "Ah! and what now?" he asked, drumming the table with his fingers. For a moment I could find no words, then: "Forgeries!" I fairly gasped. "Yes, rank forgeries," replied the old man grimly. "But--sir--" I stammered, "’tis the King’s own writing." "You are sure of that, eh?" "Yes, sure as death." "And why?" "Because I saw a letter from King Charles at Sir John Berkeley’s house but a week ago. ’Tis framed and hangs upon the wall; and the writing is the same as that," I added, pointing to the documents. "You have good cause for saying that; yet ’tis not so." "Well, at any rate two peas were never more alike. I remember thinking that the ’Charles’ looked more like Charley--just as this one does. Yes, ’tis wonderfully like it."