red. 'Look and see."

"There was a full set of fire-irons there, and I took the poker and
tapped all about the hearth, as excited as a boy on a treasure hunt,
though of course I didn't believe in it, any more than the boy does,
really.

"'No, Father,' I said, 'there's nothing to show--' and then, just
between the andirons, I hit a blow that rang as hollow as a drum!

"'But there's no brick loose!' I cried, and he whispered, 'Then break
it!'

"It took more than a few blows and I broke the poker, but finally I
loosened the mortar and there under the two centre bricks was an iron
box, about seven inches square, made like a little trunk. I fished it
out and opened it--it opened from the side--and pulled out two thick
handfuls of yellow letters, without envelopes. I opened the top one
eagerly, but it had no date nor address. For signature there was only
the name 'Olive.'"

He stopped abruptly and stared at the thick-bellied decanter before
him. His voice sank lower.

"I have never heard or read that name since," he said slowly, "without
a thrill at my nerves like a picked violin string. They were the
wickedest letters ever written, I think. Even for a woman, they were
incredible."

The men stared at him, mystified, confused, eager.

"One, the third, I think, said something like this: '_They may bury me,
now that you want me no longer. They shall never bury these letters--I
swear it. Here in the room where I wrote them, they shall live after I
am gone._'

"And they lived--God, they lived! As I pored over them, cross-legged
by that little hearth, I believe that I was as lost to the world about
me as Father Kelly had been a few moments before. They were not
written for me, they offered me nothing, the writer was beyond doubt
dead and gone; but for the moment those yellow papers held me, soul and
body, in such a grip as I have never known before or since. I can't
tell you ... I didn't know such things could be written...." He shook
his head slowly.

"I'd always been fairly decent, you see--there were circumstances ... I
couldn't take advantage...

"Did you ever turn over a good old sunny rock, flat, a little mossy,
but clean and wholesome? And underneath it crawls--it crawls! Black,
slimy slug things ... muck of the Pit!

"That was me. And every time my eyes fell on one of those amazing
phrases on that yellow page, I had to hold the rock down!

"Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder. I jumped l