“But it says not to delay in opening it,” persisted Mollie.
“Yes,” slowly; “it does.” Then, after a pause: “Why not open it, Mollie? Maybe we may become like the good genii in the fairy tales, who always helped the poor, unfortunate prince who was about to lose his sweetheart.”
“Oh, I dare not,” and Mollie shook her head.
“But you must; we cannot leave it now,” the other returned.
“But dare I?”
It was evident that Mollie’s curiosity would overcome her scruples.
“Of course, you dare. We may do some good. At least,” hesitatingly, “it will do no harm to see what that cylinder contains.”
So they argued the point, and finally left the room bearing the cylinder with them.
An hour later, in the sanctity of Mollie’s bedroom, and with the aid of a file which she had procured, the cylinder was opened. From it Mollie drew forth, cautiously, and with a sense of fear, a tightly-rolled paper. The cylinder was only half an inch in diameter by ten inches in length, and the rolled paper, when spread out, was simply a letter containing a few words, yet with writing as fresh as if spread upon its surface only a short time since.