"Yes; and letters for you. I am sorry for you, if you mean to answer them all." And he gave Morton a formidable packet. Morton cut the string. "These are all six or eight months old. They are postmarked from Calcutta." "Yes, they came after we had gone up the country, and were sent back to this place to meet you. Wait a moment; here are more. These two have just come from England." Morton took them; recognized on one the handwriting of Meredith; on the other, that of his friend Mrs. Ashland. His heart leaped to his throat; he tore open the seal, and glanced down the page. Buckland saw his agitation. "No bad news, I trust." "I had an enemy, and he is dead. You shall know more of it to-morrow." And hastening from the house, he mounted again, and through the midst of mules, donkeys, dromedaries, men, children, and old women, rode at an unlawful speed towards his lodging. Here, with a beating heart, he explored his profuse correspondence from beginning to end. By the Calcutta packet, he learned how his native town had been thrown into commotion by the exposure and flight of Vinal, and how his friends were eager and impatient to hear his explanation of the affair. The more recent letters bore tidings still more startling. The bark Swallow had touched at Gibraltar, and a letter from her captain to her owners, forwarded by the Oriental steamer on her return voyage, told how his passenger, John White, had been lost overboard during a gale, two of the crew having seen the accident; how, arriving at Gibraltar, his trunks had been opened in the consul's presence, to learn his address; and how, along with a large amount of money in gold, letters and papers had been found, showing that he was not John White, but Horace Vinal, of Boston. * * * * * On the next morning, Morton despatched a letter to Meredith. In it, he told his friend the whole course of his story; and these were the closing words:--