"This is Greek to me," he muttered. "See what you can make out of it."
He handed the paper to the doctor. The latter wrinkled his brows and shrugged his shoulders.
"I give it up," he replied, half smiling.
I peeped beneath his elbow.
"Why, it's French," I said, "and my mother's writing, sir!"
"Can you read it?" asked the doctor, spreading it out on the desk lid.
In reply I began without hesitation:
"'To Monsieur Henri Amedee Laralle de Brienne.
"'Dear Brother,—Although I have not written you and have received no word from you, I am writing these lines, trusting and intending that they will meet your eye should you survive me. My husband, whose memory I cherish, is dead—lost at sea. Despite the injustice with which you have treated him, and me also since my second marriage, I recommend to you my son, who bears the name of his step-father.'"
I started and read the last words over twice.
"Go on!" interjected the lawyer, rapping the mantelpiece sharply with his knuckles.