Karl heard another match struck outside, and then the steps of the agent retreating in the direction of the pump. In his restlessness of mind he could not sit still, but rose to pace the room. A small set of ornamental book-shelves, hanging against the wall, caught his attention: he halted before it and took down a volume, mechanically, rather than with any motive. "Philip Salter. From his loving mother." The words met Karl's eyes as he opened the book. Just for a moment he questioned whether his sight was deceiving him. But no. There they were, in a lady's hand, the ink dry and faded with time. It was Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress." "_Is_ it Salter, after all?" mentally breathed Karl. Mr. Smith came in again with the glass of water as the doubt was running through Karl's mind. Thanking his agent for the water, he drank it at a draught, and sat down with the book in his hand. "I have been amongst your books, you see, Mr. Smith. A sound old volume, this." "So it is, Sir Karl. I dip into it myself now and then." "Did you know this--this Mr. Philip Salter?"--holding the book open at the words. For answer the agent threw his eyes straight into Karl's face, and paused. "Did _you_ know him, Sir Karl?" "I never knew him. I have heard somewhat about him." "Ay, few persons but have, I expect," returned the agent, with a kind of groan. "He was my cousin, sir." "Your cousin!" echoed Karl. "My own cousin: we were sisters' sons. He was Philip Salter; I am Philip Smith." Karl's eyes were opened. In more senses than one. "The fool that Philip Salter showed himself!" ejaculated Philip Smith--and it was evident by the bitter tone that the subject was a sore one. "I was in his office, Sir Karl, a clerk under him; but he was some years younger than I. He might have done so well: none of us had the smallest idea but what he was doing well. It was all through private and illegitimate speculation. He got into a hole where the mire was deep, and he used dangerous means when at his wits' end to get himself out of it. It did for him what you know, and it ruined me; for, being his cousin, men thought I must have known of it, and my place was taken from me." "Where is he now?" asked Karl. "I don't know. Sometimes we think he is dead. After his escape, we had reason to believe that he got off to Canada, but we were never made certain of it, and have never heard from him in any way. He may be in some of the backwoods there, afraid to write." "And this was his book?"