he two of us. It was
not contained in an envelope, but seemed to have been slipped in as an
after-thought. It ran:--

Dear Moira and Dear Jimmy,--

If you ever read this it will be because I am no more and have
failed to bring my plans to a successful conclusion. In that case I
look to the two of you to carry on from the point where I left off,
but because you are both young, and so have very little sense, I
don't intend to let either of you fall into an easy thing. There's
money at the back of this, enough to make you rich for life, but
you'll have to use the brains you both have got and work like the
very dickens to get it. I've put some of the necessary directions
in a cypher that a child could read, but apart from that you'll
have to use your heads. As you know some things that Moira doesn't,
Jimmy, and vice versa, you can see that it won't pay either of you
to quarrel.

The man who really holds the key to the situation is a gentleman
named Abel Cumshaw. Abel, I understand, is in his second childhood,
and can never be brought to realise that it is any later than the
early eighties, but his son Albert is a most astonishing young
fellow, as you'll find when you meet him, if you have not already
done so before this falls into your hands. You see I have
sufficient confidence in your ability to believe that you will find
this package sooner or later. If it's too late when you do find it,
of course the joke'll be on the pair of you.

Now, a word to you, Moira. Jimmy knows the hidden valley quite
well, so don't believe him if he says he doesn't. I spent nearly an
hour the other day telling him all about it, and even went the
length of showing him a map of the place. If he doesn't help you
out, it's because he's got a bad memory.

As for yourself, Jimmy, remember that you can't get along without
Moira and don't try. Once you've found what you're looking for you
can each go your own way, but I rather fancy you won't want to
then. I think that's about all, unless to remind you that Mr.
Albert Cumshaw will be entitled to his fair share of the spoils.

And on that note the letter ended, and underneath was his sprawling
signature, "H. Bryce," written as firmly as ever he had written it.

"Well, what do you make of that?" I asked when I had finished reading
it.