lly at the handwriting. He made no proper
response to that invitation; what he did was to give a peevish glance at
the letter, and then push it aside, with an equally peevish exclamation.

"What of it?" he said. "It conveys nothing to me!"

"Take your time, Portlethorpe," remonstrated Mr. Lindsey, who was
unlocking a drawer in his desk. "It'll perhaps convey something to you
when you compare that writing with a certain signature which I shall now
show you. This," he continued, as he produced Gilverthwaite's will, and
laid it before his visitor, "is the will of the man whose coming to
Berwick ushered in all these mysteries. Now, then--do you see who was one
of the witnesses to the will? Look, man!"

Mr. Portlethorpe looked--and was startled out of his peevishness.

"God bless me!" he exclaimed. "Michael Carstairs!"

"Just that," said Mr. Lindsey. "Now then, compare Michael Carstairs'
handwriting with the handwriting of that letter. Come here, Hugh!--you,
too, have a look. And--there's no need for any very close or careful
looking, either!--no need for expert calligraphic evidence, or for the
use of microscopes. I'll stake all I'm worth that that signature and that
letter are the work of the same hand!"

Now that I saw the Smeaton letter and the signature of the first witness
to Gilverthwaite's will, side by side, I had no hesitation in thinking
as Mr. Lindsey did. It was an exceptionally curious, not to say
eccentric, handwriting--some of the letters were oddly formed, other
letters were indicated rather than formed at all. It seemed impossible
that two different individuals could write in that style; it was rather
the style developed for himself by a man who scorned all conventional
matters, and was as self-distinct in his penmanship as he probably was
in his life and thoughts. Anyway, there was an undeniable, an
extraordinary similarity, and even Mr. Portlethorpe had to admit that it
was--undoubtedly--there. He threw off his impatience and irritability,
and became interested--and grave.

"That's very strange, and uncommonly important, Lindsey!" he said.
"I--yes, I am certainly inclined to agree with you. Now, what do you
make of it?"

"If you want to know my precise idea," replied Mr. Lindsey, "it's just
this--Michael Carstairs and Martin Smeaton are one and the same man--or,
I should say, were! That's about it, Portlethorpe."

"Then in that case--that young fellow at Dundee is Michael Carstairs'
son?" exclai