“A dreary prospect. Yet, to go over the same story day after day, every day, seems little better than that walk up and down the terrace, does it?” “Leave it, Constance. Give it up and go back to your own work.” He took up the fatal book and threw it to the other end of the room. “Frankly, I would leave it if I could. The thing weighs upon me. I understand what possession means. I am possessed. I must follow you.” “Constance, we are growing ridiculous. We are two persons of culture, and we talk of possession and of an unseen force that drags us.” “But since we are dragged----” “Yes, since we are dragged”--he crossed over the room, picked up the book, and brought it back--“and we are dragged--let us obey.” It was then three weeks since this inquiry had begun. It was now the sole object of their lives. They hunted in the British Museum among old papers, they went to the Hall and turned out desks and drawers and cupboards of letters, documents, papers, and accounts. They found enough to reconstruct the daily life of the old man before the tragedy, and the history of his predecessors. They were the simple annals of peaceful country life, with no events but those that one expects--births of children, buying of lands, festivities. You know that when Sisyphus had rolled his ball--or was it a wheel?--to the top of the hill, the thing incontinently rolled all the way down again. Then, with a sigh, the prisoner walked after it, as slowly as was consistent with a show of obedience, and began again. So Leonard, with a sigh, began again, when one theory after the other broke down. At this point the coincidences commenced. They were talking together one morning. “If,” said Leonard, “we could only hear the man Dunning on the subject! He would be more interesting, even, than the ancient boy who scared the birds.” “He must be dead long ago. Yet, if he could be found----” At this moment--no coincidence, I have explained, can be considered remarkable--Leonard’s servant opened the door and brought him a bulky letter. It had an Australian postage stamp upon it. He looked carelessly at the address, and tossed it on the table to wait his convenience. As it lay on its back Constance read, printed across the securing fold, the words “John Dunning’s Sons.” “John Dunning’s Sons,” she said. “This is strange.” She took up the letter and pointed out the name. “Just as we were talking of John Dunning. Open the letter, Leonard, and read it. Oh, this is wonderful! Open it at once.” Leonard tore open the envelope. Within there was a letter and an enclosure. He read both rapidly. “Good Heaven!” he cried. “It is actually the voice of the man himself, Constance; it is the voice we were asking for. It is his voice speaking from the grave.” He read aloud both the letter and the enclosure. The following was the letter: “DEAR SIR,