cle that had been placed between them. Finding a
cane in a corner of the room, he thrust it in, and pushed through to the
opposite side a little secret drawer, unfurnished with a knob, but
covered with a lid.

He resumed his seat, and held the little box in his hand. Before he had
time to think of what he was doing, or to appreciate the fact that he
had no right to open a secret drawer, he had opened it. It contained but
one article, and that was a letter directed to Paul Benedict. The letter
was sealed, so that he was measurably relieved from the temptation to
examine its contents. Of one thing he felt sure: that if it contained
anything prejudicial to the writer's interests--and it was addressed in
the handwriting of Robert Belcher--it had been forgotten. It might be of
great importance to the inventor. The probabilities were, that a letter
which was deemed of sufficient importance to secrete in so remarkable a
manner was an important one.

To Sam Yates, as to Mrs. Dillingham, with the little book in her hand,
arose the question of honor at once. His heart was with Benedict. He was
sure that Belcher had some foul purpose in patronizing himself, yet he
went through a hard struggle before he could bring himself to the
determination that Benedict and not Belcher should have the first
handling of the letter. Although the latter had tried to degrade him,
and was incapable of any good motive in extending patronage to him, he
felt that he had unintentionally surrounded him with influences which
had saved him from the most disgraceful ruin. He was at that very moment
in his employ. He was eating every day the bread which his patronage
provided.

After all, was he not earning his bread? Was he under any obligation to
Mr. Belcher which his honest and faithful labor did not discharge? Mr.
Belcher had written and addressed the letter. He would deliver it, and
Mr. Benedict should decide whether, under all the circumstances, the
letter was rightfully his. He put it in his pocket, placed the little
box back in its home, replaced the drawers which hid it, and went on
with his work.

Yates carried the letter around in his pocket for several days. He did
not believe the agent knew either of the existence of the letter or the
drawer in which it was hidden. There was, in all probability, no man but
himself in the world who knew anything of the letter. If it was a paper
of no importance to anybody, of course Mr. Belcher had forgotten