irst perusal, the only information I could
definitely gather from it was that my father was then suffering from the
effects of many years of mental anguish resulting from some matter
which, if I understood him aright, seemed to be in some way connected
with my poor dead mother. The letter concluded with the extraordinary
words, "Lionel, the shadow of deception and falsehood rests upon us
both, and from no fault of ours.--Yours distractedly, Cuthbert
Lascelles."

"The shadow of deception and falsehood!--no fault of ours!--yours
distractedly!" Whatever could it all mean? The closing words of the
letter, "yours distractedly," puzzled me most of all. Hitherto my
father's communications to me, however lacking in affection they might
otherwise have been, had all terminated with the orthodox "your
affectionate father." Why, then, this departure from the rule? Was it
intentional, or was it merely to be regarded as an indication of the
terribly disturbed state of the writer's mind?

I read and re-read this most singular epistle at least half a dozen
times without gathering any additional light upon the obscure and
mysterious hints which it contained, and I then turned to the remaining
letters, thinking I might possibly find in them a solution to the
enigma. And at the first reading I imagined I _did_ find it; the
conclusion at which I arrived being that my poor unfortunate father must
have gone mad! I patiently went through the whole packet a second time,
seeking in them some additional evidence of insanity; but no, saving on
this one particular matter the writer had evidently been in full
possession of all his faculties. The fourth letter contained the
information that the news of the mutiny on board the _Hermione_ had
reached England, and that it was believed some of the officers had
escaped massacre and had been landed at La Guayra. Touching this matter
he had written: "I can scarcely say, at this moment, whether I hope you
are among the living or among the dead. If the latter, I shall at least
enjoy the melancholy satisfaction of knowing that I have seen the last
of one who, though I could have dearly loved him, and have been proud of
him for his own sake, was, nevertheless, although my own son, almost
hateful to me, because of his marked resemblance to one whose duplicity
has been the curse of my life. But if, on the other hand, you are
living, Lionel--as something whispers to me that you are--I shall
perhaps