it. He turned
it and threw open the lid. There was a white slip of paper with his own
name written upon it. With trembling fingers he unfolded it. Was he
the heir to the riches of El Dorado, or was he destined to be a poor
struggling artist? The note was dated that very evening, and ran in this
way:

"MY DEAR ROBERT,--My secret shall never be used again. I cannot
tell you how I thank Heaven that I did not entirely confide it to
you, for I should have been handing over an inheritance of misery
both to yourself and others. For myself I have hardly had a happy
moment since I discovered it. This I could have borne had I been
able to feel that I was doing good, but, alas! the only effect of my
attempts has been to turn workers into idlers, contented men into
greedy parasites, and, worst of all, true, pure women into
deceivers and hypocrites. If this is the effect of my interference
on a small scale, I cannot hope for anything better were I to carry
out the plans which we have so often discussed. The schemes of my
life have all turned to nothing. For myself, you shall never see me
again. I shall go back to the student life from which I emerged.
There, at least, if I can do little good, I can do no harm. It is
my wish that such valuables as remain in the Hall should be sold,
and the proceeds divided amidst all the charities of Birmingham.
I shall leave tonight if I am well enough, but I have been much
troubled all day by a stabbing pain in my side. It is as if wealth
were as bad for health as it is for peace of mind. Good-bye,
Robert, and may you never have as sad a heart as I have to-night.
Yours very truly,
RAFFLES HAW."

"Was it suicide, sir? Was it suicide?" broke in the policeman as Robert
put the note in his pocket.

"No," he answered; "I think it was a broken heart."

And so the wonders of the New Hall were all dismantled, the carvings and
the gold, the books and the pictures, and many a struggling man or woman
who had heard nothing of Raffles Haw during his life had cause to bless
him after his death. The house has been bought by a company now, who
have turned it into a hydropathic establishment, and of all the folk who
frequent it in search of health or of pleasure there are few who know
the strange story which is connected with it.

The blight which Haw's wealth cast around it seemed to last even after
his death. Old McIntyre still rave