“I never heard the names before,” said Dalton, motioning to a chair. The stranger seated himself, and, placing a large roll of papers before him on the table, proceeded to untie and arrange them most methodically, and with the air of a man too deeply impressed with the importance of his occupation to waste a thought upon the astonishment of a bystander. “Prichard and Harding are mighty cool kind of gentlemen,” thought Dalton, as he took his seat at the opposite side of the table, trying, but not with any remarkable success, to look as much at ease as his visitor. “Copy of deed draft of instructions bill of sale of stock no, here it is! This is what we want,” muttered Prichard, half aloud. “I believe that letter, sir, is in your handwriting?” Dalton put on his spectacles and looked at the document for a few seconds, during which his countenance gradually appeared to light up with an expression of joyful meaning; for his eye glistened, and a red flush suffused his cheek. “It is, sir, that's mine, every word of it; and what's more, I 'm as ready to stand to it to-day as the hour I wrote it.” Mr. Prichard, scarcely noticing the reply, was again deep in his researches; but the object of them must be reserved for another chapter. CHAPTER XIV. AN EMBARRASSING QUESTION. How very seldom it is that a man looks at a letter he has written some twenty years or so before, and peruses it with any degree of satisfaction! No matter how pleasurable the theme, or how full of interest at the time, years have made such changes in circumstances, have so altered his relations with the world, dispelled illusions here, created new prospects there, that the chances are he can feel nothing but astonishment for what once were his opinions, and a strange sense of misgiving that he ever could have so expressed himself. Rare as this pleasure is, we left Mr. Dalton in the fullest enjoyment of it, in our last chapter; and as he read and re-read his autograph, every feature of his face showed the enjoyment it yielded him. “My own writing, sure enough! I wish I never put my hand to paper in a worse cause. Is n't it strange,” he muttered, “how a man's heart will outlive his fingers? I could n't write now as well as I used then, but I can feel just the same. There 's the very words I said.” And with this he read, half aloud, from the paper: “'But if you my consent to send lawyers and attorneys to the devil, and let the-matter be settled between us, like two gentlemen, Peter Dalton will meet you when, where, and how you like, and take the satisfaction as a full release of every claim and demand he makes on you.' Just so; and a fairer offer never was made; but I grieve to say it wasn't met in the same spirit.” “When you wrote that letter, Mr. Dalton,” said Prichard, not looking up from the papers before him, “you were doubtless suffering under the impression of a wrong at the hands of Sir Stafford Ouslow.”