nd for a long
time he tried to piece them together. But there were a great many of
them, and my father was not a scholar, though he was affluent.'

'What became of the scraps?' I asked. 'Did your father keep them?'

'Yes, he did. And I used to try, when I was younger, to make out
something from them. But even I never seemed to get near it. I've never
thrown them away, though. They're in a box.'

I got them for a piece of gold that I could ill spare--some score or
so of shreds of yellow paper, traversed with pale ink. The joy of the
archaeologist with an unknown papyrus, of the detective with a clue,
surged in me. Indeed, I was not sure whether I was engaged in private
inquiry or in research; so recent, so remote was the mystery. After two
days' labour, I marshalled the elusive words. This is the text of them:

MR. COATES, SIR,

They say Revenge is sweet. I am fortunate to find it is so. I
have compelled you to be far more a Fool than you made me at the
fete-champetre of Lady B. & I, having accomplished my aim, am ready to
forgive you now, as you implored me on the occasion of the fete. But
pray build no Hope that I, forgiving you, will once more regard you as
my Suitor. For that cannot ever be. I decided you should show yourself
a Fool before many people. But such Folly does not commend your hand to
mine. Therefore desist your irksome attention &, if need be, begone from
Bath. I have punished you, & would save my eyes the trouble to turn away
from your person. I pray that you regard this epistle as privileged and
private.

E. T. L. 10 of February.

The letter lies before me as I write. It is written throughout in a
firm and very delicate Italian hand. Under the neat initials is drawn,
instead of the ordinary flourish, an arrow, and the absence of any
erasure in a letter of such moment suggests a calm, deliberate character
and, probably, rough copies. I did not, at the time, suffer my fancy to
linger over the tessellated document. I set to elucidating the reference
to the fete-champetre. As I retraced my footsteps to the little
bookshop, I wondered if I should find any excuse for the cruel
faithlessness of Emma Tylney Long.

The bookseller was greatly excited when I told him I had re-created the
letter. He was very eager to see it. I did not pander to his curiosity.
He even offered to buy the article back at cost price. I asked him if he
had ever heard, in his youth, of any scene that had passed between Miss