I had jumped from my chair and taken the MS. from Calbot's hand. It was impossible--it was inconceivable, but it was true. The page was thoroughly wetted through, but there were the three names--the _four_ names, for my own was added, in the character of compiler of the work--plainly traced out in light red ink. Could I have done it in a fit of abstraction? No, for the chirography was not mine--it was identical with all the rest of the writing. In my utter bewilderment, I raised my eyes to the wall, where hung the picture of my ecclesiastical ancestor--he, the alchemist, the busybody, the death-bed confidant, the suspected wizard--and my own namesake--we were the only two Toxophiluses in all the line of Draytons. Once more, for the third or fourth time that evening, it struck me that he looked excessively knowing and sly. Who can analyse the lightning evolutions of human thought? I knew the truth before I could explain it. It crystallised in my brain all in a moment. A glance at the front of the MS., which had not been wetted, confirmed me. I threw down the MS., clapped Calbot on the shoulder, and burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, which his astonished and concerned aspect served only to aggravate. It was some minutes before I could speak. "It is a simple matter after all," I said. "My old progenitor, there on the wall, was a friend--confidential friend--of Armstrong's. It was he who wrote that MS., and left the blanks, which are not blanks, but names written in invisible ink. He prepared, then, the chemical reagent for the purpose of making the invisible writing visible whenever the time should come. Perhaps he meant to apply it himself some day; but, unluckily, death snatched him all unawares from the scene of his pious intrigues. The MS. got into the hands of Armstrong's heirs (from whom I this day received it). The reagent stayed with the Draytons. This evening you came and brought the two together in your own inimitable style. You see, wherever the paper is wet, the blanks are filled in: the untouched parts are blanks still. Oh John, John! I wish this had happened before I printed my article on 'Unrecognisable Truths:' it is a peculiarly apt illustration." "Didn't I tell you," said Calbot, after a pause, "that there was nothing in the world so strange as coincidences?" "There is the hobgoblin still unaccounted for," answered I; "but I have done my part; I leave the rest to you." * * * * * The next day but one came a note from my friend. It ran: