I did not finish the sentence. Eliza suddenly opened the drawing-room door to deliver a letter to me. "It came by express," said Eliza, "and the boy is waiting at the door." "Take him into the kitchen and feed him," I said, glancing at the superscription. I did not recognize the writing. "You can go, Eliza," for she still lingered--out of curiosity, I expect. I opened the envelope, and besides the letter--a long one written on foolscap--there was a folded paper, which fell to the floor. Gertrude picked it up, while I turned instantly to the signature. "Joseph Striver!" I read in wonderment. "What can he be writing about to me in such a hurry that it requires an express delivery?" "Read! read!" cried Gertrude, with bright eyes, and crushing up the folded paper in her hands without looking at it. "He said that he would save my good name. Perhaps that letter contains the truth." I hastily skimmed the contents, then walked towards the door. Gertrude very impatiently followed me. "Where are you going? Why don't you read me the letter?" she inquired imperatively. "I shall read it when I have dismissed the messenger. It's all right," and at once I went to the kitchen. Here I gave the boy a shilling and sent him off. On my return to the drawing-room I found Gertrude looking at the folded paper, which she had smoothed out. "What does this mean?" she asked bewildered, and I looked also. The paper contained a rude drawing representing a kind of bird. Whether kite or owl or barn-door fowl I could not say. Around were a number of spots, and beneath were two large letters: an "A" reversed, and an "S" twisted in the wrong direction. "What does it mean?" asked Gertrude. "Let us read the letter," said I, sitting down, and we did so together, she looking over my shoulder. Striver wrote that by this time no doubt I had found out the disappearance of the glass eye. Mr. Monk had taken it, he said, when my back had been turned, and had destroyed it. The glass portion he had smashed up, and had afterwards gone out to throw the silver coin with the inscribed cipher into the Thames. Thus wrote the gardener: "You can never learn the cipher from the eye itself. But I enclose a drawing I made of what was on the threepenny bit while it was in my possession. What it means I can't say, or I should have found the treasure for myself. You were right, Mr. Vance, in thinking that I had taken the eye from the drawing-room table. I did. When you left the window I saw that you were disturbed, and, moreover, was very jealous, as I fancied you had just exchanged a word with Gertrude. On the spur of the moment I ran to the window when you turned the corner of the terrace with Mr. Monk, and saw the eye. I was greatly amazed, as I could not think how it came to be there, and I was still more amazed to think you had not secured it----" "I was a fool," I interjected, "but I had not my wits about me."