"Oh, he'll turn up all right," said Bolby calmly, "people don't give up ten thousand a year so easily--no--ten thousand is not so easily given up by people." "But Mr. Bolby," said Una in despair, "is there no note or certificate among my cousin's papers which can lead to the identification of this unknown person?" Mr. Bolby produced a letter from his breast coat pocket. "Now we are coming to it," he said with great glee. "I thought such a thing might be possible; so as it was possible such a thing might be, I searched and found this letter--it is sealed with the arms of the family, and was found by me locked up in his private desk, so everything so far is in order--I'm sure you will agree there is order in everything so far; it certainly has a ring inside it, for a ring is inside certainly, as I can feel it. To my mind this envelope contains the letter and ring mentioned in the will." The curiosity of everyone was now roused to the highest point, and Una asked the next question amid a breathless silence. "To whom is the letter addressed?" A profound silence ensued, during which the proverbial pin might have been heard to drop, as the lawyer replied solemnly and slowly, "The letter is addressed to 'Mr. Reginald Blake, Vicarage, Garsworth.'" "Addressed to me?" cried Reginald in an astonished voice, springing to his feet. "Impossible!" "See for yourself," replied Bolby, handing him the letter. Reginald took it in silence and stood holding it irresolutely for a few moments, during which time he glanced round at the astonished faces present. At last with an effort he tore open the envelope, but overcome with emotion seemed unable to proceed further, and crossing the room, gave the opened envelope to the vicar. Dr. Larcher arose from his seat as he took the letter and looked steadily at the young man. "Do you wish me to read it?" he asked slowly. Reginald bowed silently, and sat down in the vicar's chair. Whereupon Dr. Larcher took the letter out of the envelope, leaving the ring still inside, and having opened it, read the contents in a slow, deliberate manner. Everyone listened in amazement to the extraordinary disclosure, and every eye was fixed on Reginald, who sat in his chair with his face buried in his hands. "This then," said the vicar folding up the letter, "proves that you Reginald are the son of Randal Garsworth and Fanny Blake, for here is the letter, and here is the ring." He stepped up to the lawyer and solemnly delivered both to him, then returning to his seat laid his hand kindly on Blake's shoulder. "You hear what I have read," he observed sonorously. "What do you say?" "Say?"' cried the young man, springing to his feet with a pale, haggard-looking face, "that it's a lie--you know yourself, sir, that I am not the squire's son--Patience knows all about my birth--it is honourable--honourable. I--I am not the son of that man," and the poor young fellow fairly broke down.