“No, no, I cannot read it by this light; tell me what he says,” exclaimed Sir Gordon.
“The letter is directed to me at King’s Castor, and above the direction Hallam has written, ‘If Rev. Christie Bayle has left King’s Castor, the postal authorities are requested to find his address from the Clerical Directory.’ The people at Castor of course knew my address, and sent it on.”
“Yes, I see. Well, well, what does he say?”
Bayle read, in a calm, clear voice, the following letter:
“Prison, Nulla Nulla,—
“Port Jackson, Australia,—
“December 9th, 18—.
“Sir,—
“You and I were never friends, and in my trouble perhaps you were harder on me than you need have been. But I always believed you to be a true gentleman, and that you liked my wife and child. I can trust no one else but a clergyman, being a convict; but your profession must make you ready, like our chaplain here, to hear all our troubles, so I write to ask you to help me by placing the letter enclosed in my wife’s hands, and in none other’s. It is for her sight alone.
“I cannot offer to reward you for doing me this service, but I ask you to do a good turn to a suffering man, who has gone through a deal since you saw him.
“Please mark: the letter is to be given to my wife alone, or to my child. If they are both dead, the letter is to be sent back to me unopened, as I tell you it contains private matters, only relating to my wife and me.
“I am, Reverend Sir,—
“Your obedient, humble servant,—
“Robert Hallam, 9749.
“To the Rev. Christie Bayle,—
“Curate of King’s Castor.”
“Why, the fellow seems to have grown vulgarised and coarse in style. That is not the sort of letter our old manager would have written.”
“The handwriting is greatly changed too.”
“Of course it is his?”
“Oh, yes; there is no doubt about it. The change is natural, if the life the poor wretches lead out there be as bad as I have heard.”
“Hah! I don’t suppose they find them feather beds, Bayle.”