ame way.

Faynie seemed incapable of interfering.

"Now we will soon determine what else there is here of importance--my
time cannot be more profitably spent than by informing myself."

Paper after paper he carefully unfolded, glancing quickly through their
contents, and as quickly tossing them back into the safe.

Evidently he had not yet found that for which he was searching so
intently.

Suddenly he came across a large square envelope, the words on which
seemed to arrest his attention at once. And in a whispered, yet
distinctly audible voice, he read the words:

"Horace Fairfax, last message to his wife--dated March 22, 18--."

"Why that is the very date upon which he died," muttered Kendale. "This
must have been written just before he committed suicide. Well, we will
see what he had to say."

And slowly he read, half aloud, as follows:

"MY DEAR WIFE: When you read the words here penned I shall be no
more. I know your heart will be most bitter against me for what I
have just done, but, realizing that my end was near, I have done it
for the best.

"I refer to the making of my will.

"When a man sees death before him, he naturally wishes to see those
nearest and dearest to him provided for, so far as he is able to do
so.

"You will remember distinctly the conversation we had at the time I
proposed marriage to you. I reminded you that I was a widower,
with a daughter whom I loved far better than the apple of my eye.

"I told you that this daughter would succeed to all my wealth, if
she lived, when time was no more with me; that no being on earth
could ever change my views in this regard--ay, in fulfilling my
duty.

"I asked you to marry me, knowing fully my intention in this
matter, stating at the time that I would give you in cash an ample
sum of money, which, if used frugally and judiciously, should last
you the remainder of your natural life, providing you outlived me.

"You accepted me under those conditions; you married me, and I, as
agreed, gave to you in a lump sum the money stipulated.

"It is needless to recall to you the fact that our wedded life has
been a failure. You have made my life miserable--ay, and that of my
sweet, motherless, tender little Faynie, until, in sheer
desperation, she has fled from her home on the night I write this,
and my grief is mo