And he handed over a letter, much stained with sea-water and sand. The heel of a boot had trodden upon and partly obliterated the writing, the ink having run, and the whole appearance of the document being somewhat draggle-tailed. But there was no doubt about the address. That was clearly written in a fine flowing English hand, "To His Excellency Lalor Maitland, late Governor of the Meuse, Constable of Dinant, etc., etc. _These_"-- We all looked at each other, and the Fiscal began to doubt whether the new evidence as to the suspected murderer would prove so valuable after all. "Your Excellency" (the letter ran), "according to the promise made to you, the lugger _Bloomendahl_, of Walchern, Captain Vandam, has been cleared of cargo and is exclusively reserved for your Excellency's use. It will be well, therefore, to dispatch your remaining business in Scotland, as it is impossible to send back the _Golden Hind_ or a vessel of similar size without causing remark. At the old place, then, a little after midnight of Thursday the 18th, a boat will be waiting for you at the eastern port or the western of Portowarren according to the wind. The tide is full about one." "How came you by this?" the Fiscal demanded. "Shall I tell ye in bits, sorr?" said Boyd, "or will ye have her from the beginning?" "From the beginning," said the Fiscal, "only with as few digressions as possible." "Sure," said Boyd innocently, "I got none o' them about me. Your honour can saarch me if ye like!" "The Fiscal means," said the Doctor, "that you are to tell him the story as straightly and as briefly as possible." "Straightly, aye, that I will," said Boyd, "there was never a crooked word came out of my mouth; but briefly, that's beyond any Irishman's power--least of all if he comes from County Donegal!" "Go on!" cried the Fiscal impatiently. "As all things do in our house, it began with Bridget," said Boyd Connoway; "ye see, sorr, she took in a man with a wound--powerful sick he was. The night after the 'dust-up' at the Big House was the time, and she nursed him and she cured him, the craitur. But, whatever the better Bridget was, all that I got for it was that I had to go to Portowarren at dead of night, and that letter flung at me like a bone to a dog, when I told him that I might be called in question for the matter of my wife." "'Aye, put it on your wife,' says he, 'they will let you off. _You_ have not the pluck of a half-drowned flea!' "But when I insisted that I should have wherewith to clear me and Bridget also, he cast the letter down, dibbling it into the pebbles and sand with his heel just as he was going aboard. "'There,' he cried, 'now you can put it on me!'" "Lalor Maitland," said the Fiscal, ruminating, with his brow knit at the letter in his hand. "Where is that maid? Bring her here!"