"Two of them," he muttered, turning over the papers. He took one up and began to read as follows:—
"Dear Davidson,—You were good enough to say that you would be glad to hear from me when I had reached home again, and the suggestion was one more addition to the numerous kindnesses I received from you during my visit to your part of the world, and for which I once more thank you most heartily. Through your instrumentality I was enabled to see into the life of the country and to catch the spirit of its people in a way which I could not otherwise have done, and I am very grateful to you.
"I do not intend to talk about myself, however, but about you. Do you remember the one and only occasion on which you allowed me to see something of the real man beneath the outer shell of the genial manager of the A1 S. and T. Co.? Pardon me if I hurt your feelings by alluding to a painful subject, but I have my reasons, as you will see later. On that occasion I remember that I, like a blundering fool, got on to the subject of my return home to my wife and child, and I began telling you of my Maud—her sweet ways, her looks, her cleverness, and all that. You had confessed to feeling a bit 'under the weather' that day, and I said, 'Why don't you take a holiday and pay a visit to the old country with me?' 'The old country!' you said. 'Why, man, I haven't seen it for fifteen years. It has no attractions for me now. If I had a child living, I would be a different man.' And there was such a world of sadness in your tone that I'm blest if I didn't have to get up and look out of the window. Then you told me how your wife had died, back in the old country, and how all your hopes had died with her; and from the way you spoke I guessed that you were not in the habit of telling your story, and I felt honoured by your confidence. Then you showed me a locket with a picture of your wife inside it, and attached to the locket was the half of a coin. 'We split this for luck when we were young and foolish,' you said, and your laugh was one of the most heartbreaking sounds I ever heard in my life. Well now, having got to my point at last, it is my firm belief that you have a child living, and by all accounts as sweet a little maiden as the heart of man could wish, and the discovery came about in a very simple way.
"Some two years ago my brother took a place in Scotland, at Heathermuir, near Morristown. While I was on my travels my wife and daughter went up there to visit them twice, and Maud made the acquaintance of a girl named Marjory Davidson. She goes by the nickname of 'Hunter's Marjory'—I suppose, because she lives with an old uncle at his place called Hunters' Brae. I did not pay much attention to Maud's chatter, for it was a great mixture of shut-up rooms, ghosts, old houses, oak chests, boating, drowning, and all the rest of it. Of course I never for one moment connected this child with you in any way—that is, not until yesterday. There had been some talk about summer holiday plans, and wonderings as to what my brother was going to do, for there had been vague rumours of his coming south with his wife and girl.
"'By the way, Maud,' said my wife, 'before we leave town I want to buy a really nice present for Marjory.'
"'A reward for saving my precious life, I suppose,' said mischievous Maud. This Marjory did some very plucky thing when they were out boating together. I don't quite know what it was, but it doesn't matter at present.
"'No,' said my wife, 'not that exactly, but a little keepsake—something that will last.'
"'You're afraid she'll forget, like you do, mother dear.'
"At this juncture, with a feeble attempt at correction, I intimated to Miss Maud that she was impertinent to her mother.
"'Mother understands—don't you, darling?' was the reply; and mother was immediately nearly hugged to death, and I got nothing but a crushing look. But to resume.