ntine Republic.
The writing on the cover was a duplicate of the one he himself held,
and was addressed in his mother's writing: 'To my son, to be given to
him at my death.'

Peter could not see quite straight for a moment. The finding of the
packet seemed to establish conclusively his brother's identity; and he
took out the folded sheets which lay inside the cover with hands that
were not steady.

The very words in the opening sentences were the same as in his own
letter, and written in the clear, strong handwriting which he knew so
well.

'When you get this letter I shall be dead,' he read in the words which
were already painfully familiar to him; 'and before I die there is
something which I think I had better tell you. I am not haunted by
remorse nor indulging in death-bed repentance, and I shall merely ask
you not to hate me more than you can help when you have finished
reading this letter.

'You must often have heard of your elder brother who died when I was in
Spain, the year of your father's death. He did not die----' So far
Peter knew the letter off by heart, but there seemed to be many pages
of writing to follow. 'And as far as I am aware he may be living now.'

'If it is anything bad,' said Ross kindly, 'why not put it off until
to-morrow? You are about used up to-day, Peter, and whatever there is
in that box can wait.'

'I am all right, thanks,' said Peter, without looking up. And Ross
went out to the patio and left him alone.

'I must go a long way back to make myself intelligible,' the letter
went on. 'I suppose people of Spanish descent are generally credited
with an unforgiving spirit. I have never forgiven my sister-in-law. I
did not at first attempt revenge, possibly because there was only one
way in which I could deprive her and her children of their inheritance.
That way was denied me. My eldest boy died at his birth, and the girl
only lived a few weeks. After that I had no other children. I think
the grief this caused entered into both our lives with a bitterness
which is unusual, and which I shall not attempt to recall. I shall
only say that we both mourned it, and that Lionel Ogilvie and his wife
by their conduct made what might have been merely a sorrow a matter
also of almost unbearable disappointment. I mention this regrettable
emotional feeling in order to make my subsequent conduct intelligible
to you. In the course of years, during which your father hardly
attended to