The question of money occurred to me. I had noticed some loose gold and a couple of five-pound notes in one of the drawers which Gedge had opened, and having a duplicate set of keys in my pocket, I transferred the whole--a little under fourteen pounds--to my pocket. Then I took out my cheque-book. It was too large to be carried in my pocket, therefore I tore out a couple of dozen or so, folded them, and placed them in an envelope. I recognised that I could draw money with them, yet the bank need not know my whereabouts. If these people, who would, I suppose, call themselves "my friends," made active search to find the fugitive "madman," they would certainly obtain no clue from my bankers. In the same drawer as the cheque-book I found a black leather portfolio, securely locked. The latter fact impressed me. Everything else was open to my secretary, who possessed keys, both to writing-table and safe. But this was locked, apparently because therein were contained certain private papers that I had wished to keep from his eyes. No man, whoever he may be, reposes absolute confidence in his secretary. Every one has some personal matter, the existence of which he desires to preserve secret to himself alone. I drew forth the locked portfolio, and placed it upon the blotting-pad before me. It was an expansive wallet, of a kind such as I remembered having seen carried by bankers' clerks in the City from bank to bank, attached by chains to the belts around their waists. Surely upon my ring I must possess a key to it. I looked, and found a small brass key. It fitted, and a moment later I had unlocked the wallet and spread my own private papers before me. What secrets of my lost life, I wondered, might not those carefully preserved letters and documents contain? In eager, anxious wonder I turned them over. Next instant a cry of dismay broke involuntarily from my lips, as within trembling fingers I held one of those papers--a letter addressed to me. I could scarce believe my own eyes as I read it. Yet the truth was plain--hideously plain. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. I MAKE A DISCOVERY. Reader, I must take you still further into my confidence. What you have already read is strange, but certain things which subsequently happened to me were even still stranger. I held that astounding letter in my hand. My eyes were riveted upon it. The words written there were puzzling indeed. A dozen times I read them through, agape with wonder. The communication, upon the notepaper of the _Bath Hotel_ at Bournemouth, was dated June 4, 1891--five years before--and ran as follows:-- "Dear Mr Heaton,--