"I am glad you have turned up," said the lighthouse-keeper. "Oblige me by opening that locker and taking back the articles I purloined recently. If the purser asks for an explanation, tell him the truth, and say I am willing to eat this stuff now for my sins."
Pyne noticed that Brand's own letters lay in a small pile on the writing-desk. With two exceptions, they were unopened. As a matter of fact, he had glanced at the superscriptions, saw that they were nearly all from strangers, and laid them aside until night fell and the lighting of the lamps would give him a spare moment.
"I'll do that with pleasure," said the American, "but there's one thing I want to discuss with you whilst there is a chance of being alone. My uncle says he has written to you."
"To me?"
"Yes. It deals with an important matter, too. It concerns Enid."
"Mr. Traill has written to me about Enid?" repeated Brand, stopping his industrious polishing to see if Pyne were joking with him.
"That's so. See, here is his letter. It will tell its own story. Guess you'd better read it right away."
The young man picked up one of the sealed letters on the table and handed it to the other.
Setting aside a glass chimney and a wash-leather, Brand lost no time in reading Mr. Traill's communication.
Save that his lips tightened, and his face paled slightly, there was no outward indication of the tumult the written words must have created in his soul, for this is what met his astonished vision: