His thin fingers gripped my hand in silent acknowledgment. He did not speak, but the expression in his eyes told of his profound thankfulness. I placed the letter in my breast-pocket. Something seemed to be enclosed within. "Go and open the bag," he whispered, after a brief silence. I did so, and within, to my great surprise, found two huge bundles of fifty and hundred pound Bank of England notes, each packet several inches thick and tied with faded pink tape. He beckoned me to bring them to him, and when I again stood near the bed, he selected one note, and then said-- "I wish you to destroy all of them--burn them there in the grate--so that I can watch you," and he gave vent to a harsh, unnatural laugh, a hideous laugh of despair. I looked at him in hesitation. The poor old fellow was surely mad. In my hands I held notes to the value of an enormous sum. And yet he wished to ruthlessly destroy them! He noticed my hesitation, and in a quick, impatient tone, asked whether I would not carry out his wishes, at the same time handing me the note he had taken, telling me that it was to pay for his interment. "As you desire," I said, with some reluctance. "But is it just--with so much distress here, in London--to deliberately destroy money like this?" "I have a reason, Mr Kemball, a very strong reason," he answered in a low tone. So I was compelled to untie the bundles, and, separating the notes, placed them in the grate and commenced a fire, which I fed on and on, until the last note had been consumed, and there remained only a grate full of blackened tinder. I confess that I found myself wishing that I had the numbers of some of the notes, in order to reclaim their equivalent from the Bank. The old man's wild eyes, full of unnatural fire, watched the flames die down, and as they did so he gave a sigh of distinct relief. Then, with difficulty, he turned to me and, putting out his hand, said-- "In the bag--at the bottom--you will find a sealed cylinder of metal." I searched as he directed, and drew forth a heavy ancient cylinder of bronze, about a foot and a half long and three inches in diameter. The top had, I saw, been welded down, but a long time ago, because of the green corrosion about it. When I had carried it across to him, he looked me straight in the face with those deep-set glassy eyes, which haunted me for long afterwards, and said-- "I trust you with that, Mr Kemball, because--because--I feel assured that you will act as I direct. Do not attempt to seek--to discover what is within. That secret must be withheld--from you. In this I hope-- that you will respect my desire--I hope so, for--for your own sake." I held the mysterious cylinder in my hand in wonder. Evidently he treasured it even far greater than his riches, and had brought it to London with some distinct purpose which he was now--owing to his heart-trouble--unable to accomplish.