The Stolen Letter.
By WILKIE COLLINS.
William Wilkie Collins (1824-1889) was the son of an English portrait painter. As a young man he engaged in commerce, but later studied law and was admitted to the bar. His own tastes, however, inclined him to literature; and even while in business life he wrote a historical romance, "Antonina."
Becoming acquainted with Dickens, he was encouraged by the latter to give up his profession and devote himself entirely to novel writing. Dickens at that time was editor of the magazine called Household Words; and in its pages there were published the short stories by Collins, afterward collected into a volume entitled "After Dark," from which the accompanying selection is taken.
In another magazine, also edited by Dickens—All the Year Round—Collins scored his first great success with the serial story "The Woman in White," which was read with the keenest interest by tens of thousands. In it Collins showed himself to be a great master of construction. The plot was so intricate as to hold the reader in suspense until the end; while the mystery and horror of certain parts of it were masterly in their execution. Collins, in fact, ranks in English with Gaboriau in French for the ingenuity with which he elaborates a plot; and this special gift is seen also in "Armadale," "The Moonstone," and "No Name."
For a long while his stories were almost as widely read as those of Dickens himself; and in 1873, like Dickens, he visited the United States, where he gave readings of his own short stories. The narrative printed here is an excellent example of the skill with which Collins piques and sustains one's interest even within the space of a few short pages.
I served my time—never mind in whose office—and I started in business for myself in one of our English country towns, I decline stating which. I hadn't a farthing of capital, and my friends in the neighborhood were poor and useless enough, with one exception. That exception was Mr. Frank Gatliffe, son of Mr. Gatliffe, member for the county, the richest man and the proudest for many a mile round about our parts.
Stop a bit, Mr. Artist, you needn't perk up and look knowing. You won't trace any particulars by the name of Gatliffe. I am not bound to commit myself or anybody else by mentioning names. I have given you the first that came into my head.
Well, Mr. Frank was a stanch friend of mine, and ready to recommend me whenever he got the chance. I had contrived to get him a little timely help—for a consideration, of course—in borrowing money at a fair rate of interest; in fact, I had saved him from the Jews.