Eighth, ninth, tenth, and eleventh words of the twenty-second line.
Sixth and seventh words of the twenty-third line.
Second word of the twenty-fifth line.
Carnaby Vincent.
These incomprehensible lines would have the effect of reducing the feelings of most persons to a depth of sickening disappointment. But Reginald was not to be beaten so easily. A moment’s reflection convinced him that this singular table could only be the key to some letter or paper which had contained an important secret. Important it must have been, else why should such scrupulous care have been taken to effect its concealment?
What sudden half-formed thought is that which shoots across Ainslie’s mind as he gazes on the monogram at the top of the paper? Quickly unfastening the breast of his coat, the young officer takes therefrom a strongly bound pocket-book, and opening it in the same hasty manner, draws forth from among a miscellaneous collection of papers the identical letter which Sir Carnaby had intrusted on the night of his death to his servant Derrick’s charge.
By this letter hangs a tale. When Derrick, while still lingering in the neighbourhood of the Saxonford Arms, was informed of Sir Carnaby’s death by a labourer who had heard the facts from the mouth of old Dipping himself, he resolved that, since he could no longer help his master, he would at least execute his last commands. In this, however, he was providentially disappointed. On arriving at the Grange, after a long and wearisome ride, he received the startling news that Captain Hollis—to whom he should have delivered the note—had been that morning arrested on a charge of high-treason. Completely foiled in his well-meant endeavours, Derrick now thought only of his own safety. Sir Henry Ainslie’s country-seat on the borders of Suffolk, he chose to be his next destination; and thither the attendant went, intending to acquaint his unfortunate master’s relatives of the catastrophe which had occurred. The journey was not accomplished without grievous difficulty, due in a great measure to his wounded arm. A low lingering fever followed immediately upon his arrival at the Hall; and when Derrick at length recovered sufficiently to have some sense of his situation, Sir Henry Ainslie was lying under the sod, having died while in the act of imparting to his wife a secret of which he was the sole remaining possessor. The attendant’s sad tale was briefly told; but neither that nor the singular letter which he delivered, threw a spark of additional information upon the subject. Notwithstanding this, the peculiar character of Sir Carnaby’s epistle warranted its being preserved; while, as Reginald grew towards manhood, and laid Derrick’s tale more and more to heart, he not unfrequently carried his uncle’s letter about with him, vaguely hoping that some clue might turn up which would eventually solve the mystery. This was his object in bringing it on the present occasion; and now he sits eagerly comparing the translated document with the letter which he had kept for so many years. The contents of the latter ran as follows:
Dear Sir—
My son Harry informs me that your
wager on my horse is taken. I have had
much bad health lately, and have been forced
to keep my bed. I have not seen your nag
run in consequence, but hope to have the
pleasure soon. Squire Norris left us yesterday;
he only offered one hundred against Martin’s
thousand; but Martin was too deep for that,
and in the end the bet fell through. My wine
is in a bad state just now, for the cellar is all
under water. I regret purchasing this house,
instead of the Hall, though I dare say the
latter is not half so good. I do not think we
shall return to the Grange, but shall know
before long; if so, I trust you will come and
stay there. Hunters are hard to get; it seems
is if they were all going out of the county.
The Meet saw nothing of me for some time
after that accident I had, and Warton was
greatly in want of help. My arm is better
now; but I shall not be able to use it for
some time. Remember to deliver our good
wishes to the parson; may he never
have cause to regret his choice.—Your sincere
C. V. Morton.