Andrew turned a thought more solemn, but his only answer was a wary sidelong glance.
"Don't be afraid to say. A hundred people can swear to it. There's no secret to be kept."
"It is my late father's hand," said Andrew gravely.
His guest burst into a shout of laughter, and then with an effort pulled himself together again.
"Read it," he said, "and by the way, I may just as well tell you I've plenty more like it, so there's no point in putting it in the fire."
Andrew took it with gingerly suspicion, which changed into a different emotion as he read:
"Dear Harris,—I write to let you know that I have reached this city in safety and am slowly recovering from the mental anguish I have undergone. As regards my wretched and ungrateful son Andrew, I still disagree with you. No, Harris, I cannot bring myself to expose the infamy of my eldest boy to a thunder-struck world; I simply cannot do it. His immorality and dishonesty temporarily unhinged my mind. I am exiled through his perfidy, but I forgive him, Harris; I forgive him. Hoping to see you again someday,—
"Your unhappy friend,
"J. Heriot Walkingshaw."