“I beg your pardon for speaking on so painful a topic,” I went on, as soon as I saw he was ready to listen to me. “My excuse is that I came upon a little thing that same night which I have not thought of sufficient importance to mention to any one else, but which it may interest you to hear about.” Here I took from a book I held, a piece of blotting-paper. It was white on one side and blue on the other. The white side I had thickly chalked, though this was not apparent. Laying down this piece of blotting-paper, chalked side up, on the end of a large table near which we were standing, I took out an envelope from my pocket, and, shaking it gently to and fro, remarked: “In an upper room of the Moore house—you remember the southwest chamber, sir?” Ah! didn’t he! There was no misdoubting the quick emotion—the shrinking and the alarm with which he heard this room mentioned. “It was in that room that I found these.” Tipping up the envelope, I scattered over the face of the blotter a few of the glistening particles I had collected from the place mentioned. He bent over them, astonished. Then, as was natural, brushed them together in a heap with the tips of his fingers, and leaned to look again, just as I breathed a heavy sigh which scattered them far and wide. Instinctively, he withdrew his hand; whereupon I embraced the opportunity of turning the blotter over, uttering meanwhile the most profuse apologies. Then, as if anxious not to repeat my misadventure, I let the blotter lie where it was, and pouring out the few remaining particles into my palm, I held them toward the light in such a way that he was compelled to lean across the table in order to see them. Naturally, for I had planned the distance well, his finger-tips, white with the chalk he had unconsciously handled, touched the blue surface of the blotter now lying uppermost and left their marks there. I could have shouted in my elation at the success of this risky maneuver, but managed to suppress my emotion, and to stand quite still while he took a good look at the filings. They seemed to have great and unusual interest for him and it was with no ordinary emotion that he finally asked: “What do you make out of these, and why do you bring them here?” My answer was written under his hand; but this it was far from my policy to impart. So putting on my friendliest air, I returned, with suitable respect: “I don’t know what to make of them. They look like gold; but that is for you to decide. Do you want them, sir?” “No,” he replied, starting erect and withdrawing his hand from the blotter. “It’s but a trifle, not worth our attention. But I thank you just the same for bringing it to my notice.” And again his manner became a plain dismissal.