omething to eat. As I relit the
candle, he entered my room and stood facing me, but he did not speak.
His clothes were dripping and he was blinking at me with strange,
gleaming eyes. His hair was snow-white, and as I looked into his face
the deathly pallor of it frightened me. His general appearance was more
than startling; it was uncanny.

"What can I do for you?" I asked.

Greatly to my surprise he made no reply, but with a look of pain and
great anxiety sank into a chair. Then he withdrew from his pocket a
letter which he extended to me. The envelope was wet and dirty. It was
directed to Kendric Lane, Esq., No. Old Broad street, London, England.
The address was crossed and "22 Kirkland street, Liverpool," written
under it in the familiar hand of my guardian. A strange proceeding!
thought I. Was the letter intended for my father, who was long dead, and
who had removed from that address more than ten years ago? The old man
began to grin and nod as I examined the superscription. I broke the seal
on the envelope and found the following letter, undated, and with no
indication of the place from which it was sent:

"Dear Brother--I need your help. Come to me at once if you can.
Consequences of vast importance to me and to mankind depend upon your
prompt compliance. I cannot tell you where I am. The bearer will bring
you to me. Follow him and ask no questions. Moreover, be silent, like
him, regarding the subject of this letter. If you can come, procure
passage in the first steamer for New York. My messenger is provided with
funds. Your loving brother,

"Revis Lane."

I had often heard my father speak of my uncle Revis, who went to America
almost twenty years before I was born. Now he was my nearest living
relative. No news of him had reached us for many years before my father
died. I was familiar with his handwriting and the specimen before me was
either genuine, or remarkably like it. If genuine he had evidently not
heard of my father's death.

Extraordinary as the message was, the messenger was more so. He sat
peering at me with a strange, half-crazed expression on his face.

"When did you leave my uncle?" I asked.

He sat as if unconscious that I had spoken.

I drew my chair to his side and repeated the words in a loud voice, but
he did not seem to hear me. Evidently the old man could neither hear nor
speak. In a moment he began groping in his pockets, and presently handed
me a card which contained the followin