in faded ink,
which she read aloud. It ran as follows:

"/Do not grieve for me, Edward, my son, that I am thus suddenly
done to death by rebel murderers, for nought happeneth but
according to God's will. And now farewell, Edward, till we shall
meet in heaven. My monies have I hid and on account thereof I die
unto this world, knowing that not one piece shall Cromwell touch.
To whom God shall appoint, shall all my treasure be, for nought
can I communicate./"

"There," said Ida triumphantly, "what do you think of that, Colonel
Quaritch? The Bible, I think, was never sent to his son, but here it
is, and in that writing, as I solemnly believe," and she laid her
white finger upon the faded characters, "lies the key to wherever it
is that the money is hidden, only I fear I shall never make it out.
For years I have puzzled over it, thinking that it might be some form
of acrostic, but I can make nothing of it. I have tried it all ways. I
have translated it into French, and had it translated into Latin, but
still I can find out nothing--nothing. But some day somebody will hit
upon it--at least I hope so."

Harold shook his head. "I am afraid," he said, "that what has remained
undiscovered for so long will remain so till the end of the chapter.
Perhaps old Sir James was hoaxing his enemies!"

"No," said Ida, "for if he was, what became of all the money? He was
known to be one of the richest men of his day, and that he was rich we
can see from his letter to the King. There was nothing found after his
death, except his lands, of course. Oh, it will be found someday,
twenty centuries hence, probably, much too late to be of any good to
us," and she sighed deeply, while a pained and wearied expression
spread itself over her handsome face.

"Well," said Harold in a doubtful voice, "there may be something in
it. May I take a copy of that writing?"

"Certainly," said Ida laughing, "and if you find the treasure we will
go shares. Stop, I will dictate it to you."

Just as this process was finished and Harold was shutting up his
pocket-book, in which he put the fair copy he had executed on a half-
sheet of note paper, the old Squire came into the room again. Looking
at his face, his visitor saw that the interview with "George" had
evidently been anything but satisfactory, for it bore an expression of
exceedingly low spirits.

"Well, father, what is the matter?" asked his daughter.

"Oh, nothing, my dear, nothing