“Mails used only to come at long intervals in those days and this one brought the account not only of the Colonel’s fate, but of the trial at Manilla and the execution of the man that was condemned. “It was a very mysterious case. In the month of July a boat arrived at Manilla which carried the crew and one passenger from the brig _Vishnu_. One of the men, a Malay named Uracao, was in irons, and he was immediately given up to the authorities.” “Who were the others?” “Potts, as he called himself, the Colonel’s valet, Clark, three Lascars, and the Captain, an Italian named Cigole. Information was at once laid against the Malay. Potts was the chief witness. He said that he slept in the cabin while the Colonel slept in an inner state-room; that one morning early he was roused by a frightful shriek and saw Uracao rushing from the Colonel’s state-room. He sprang up, chased him, and caught him just as he was about to leap overboard. His creese covered with blood was in his hand. The Colonel, when they went to look at him, had his throat cut from ear to ear. Clark swore that he was steering the vessel and saw Potts catch Uracao, and helped to hold him. The Captain, Cigole, swore that he was waked by the noise, and rushed out in time to see this. Clark had gone as mate of the vessel. Of the Lascars, two had been down below, but one was on deck and swore to have seen the same. On this testimony Uracao was condemned and executed.” “How did they happen to leave the brig?” “They said that a great storm came up about three days’ sail from Manilla, the vessel sprang a leak, and they had to take to the boat. Their testimony was very clear indeed, and there were no contradictions; but in spite of all this it was felt to be a very mysterious case, and even the exhibition of the Malay creese, carefully covered with the stains of blood, did not altogether dispel this feeling.” “Have you got the papers yet, or are there any in Sydney that contain an account of this affair?” “I have kept them all. You may read the whole case if you care about it.” “I should like to, very much,” said Brandon, with great calmness. “When I heard of this before the mail was opened I felt an agony of fear lest my miserable boy might be implicated in some way. To my immense relief his name did not occur at all.” “You got a letter from your wife?” said Brandon, interrogatively. “Yes,” said the old man, with a sigh. “The last that I ever received from her. Here it is.” And, saying this, he opened his pocket-book and took out a letter, worn and faded, and blackened by frequent readings. Brandon took it respectfully, and read the following: “CALCUTTA, August 15, 1828.