His had been rather a barren existence thus far, taking it all in all; what would the future bring him? he wondered, with a weary sigh.
With a look of sudden determination, he straightened himself, put forth his hand, and grasped the Winchester heirloom.
The next moment he swung back the lid in the top, and found himself gazing upon the mysterious documents which, for so long, had been concealed there.
Those on top were yellowed and creased with age. There was a chronological tree of the Winchesters, dating back for ten generations; but although Gerald examined it carefully, he could find no trace of any “lord of high degree,” or anything which threw the slightest light upon his own birth or parentage.
Then there were records of marriages, births, and deaths, some baptismal-certificates, and, among these latter, that of Miss Honor Winchester herself. Also one of Martha Winchester which was pinned to a marriage-certificate, showing her to have married, some fifty years previous, a certain Arthur Harris.
With these there was the record of the birth of a daughter, who had been named Miriam, and who evidently had been the only child of this couple.
“H’m!” said Gerald thoughtfully, “I never heard Miss Honor speak of having had a sister named Martha, and—and my mother’s name was Miriam. This rather mixes things for me, and strikes me as being very queer.”
These papers were the only ones which, as yet, contained anything of special interest to him, and he wondered why they had been placed so near the bottom of the receptacle in the cricket.
He laid them apart from the others, and then drew forth a bulky envelope, which, with a sudden start and thrill, he discovered was addressed to himself, in the familiar handwriting of Miss Honor Winchester.
Now every nerve in his body seemed alive with a sense of painful expectation.