“Will you go and get them for me? I want them now,” he said, with a pale, set face.
Virgie left the room to comply with his request, but returned almost immediately with an envelope and a package in her hands.
“These are the letters—both are inclosed in one envelope,” she said, “and this is something that belongs to your sister, Lady Linton,” and she handed both to him.
She then told him how strangely her uncle had become possessed of that package so many years ago, and how she had but recently discovered to whom it belonged. She desired that he would now take charge of it and return it to her ladyship.
“It must be something very important for Miriam to be unwilling to trust it in the house during her absence,” Sir William remarked, as he examined the seal and read the sentence penned upon the wrapper.
He laid it carelessly upon his knee, while he drew the copies of those miserable letters from their envelope.
But in so doing he changed his position slightly and the package, which a moment before he had laid down, tumbled to the floor.
It struck on a corner and the wrapper, which was old and brittle, burst from end to end, revealing a book about six inches long by four wide, which flew open midway as it escaped confinement disclosing pages closely written in Lady Linton’s own hand.
“Ah! a diary, I judge,” said Sir William, as he stooped to pick it up.
Then he gave a violent start as a few words caught his eye, and every atom of color fled from his face.