The next morning, a little before nine o'clock, a carriage containing two gentlemen stopped before a modest brick dwelling in West Forty-first Street. A servant admitted them and showed them into the little parlor. The room was empty. Quincy pointed to a sofa at the farther end of the room, and Sir Stuart took a seat thereon. Quincy stepped into the entry and greeted Celeste, who was just descending the stairs.
"Sir Stuart Fernborough is in your parlor," said he; "he may be, and I hope to Heaven he is, your grandfather, but you must control your feelings until you know the truth. Come and sit by me, near the window, and read what is written in this package, so loud that he can hear every word." As he said this he placed the package, which might or might not prove her honorable heritage, in her hands.
They entered the room and took seats near the window. Celeste opened the package with trembling fingers. As she did so that little telltale piece of cloth, bearing the name "Linda Fernborough," once more fell upon the floor. Quincy picked it up, and held it during the reading of the letter, for a letter it proved to be.
It had no envelope, but was folded in the old-fashioned way, so as to leave a blank space on the back of the last sheet for the address. The address was, "Mr. Silas Putnam, Hanover, New Hampshire."
Celeste began to read in a clear voice: "Dear brother Silas."
"Is there no date?" asked Quincy.
"Oh, yes," replied Celeste, "March 18, 183—."
"Thirty years ago," said Quincy.
Celeste read on: