st into my pocket. I could find
nothing else which promised to be of service to me, and I was about to
close the door, when I discovered a sealed letter lying in a pigeon hole
by itself. I took it from its place, and read the direction: "Robert G.
Bunyard, 47 Old Jewry, Chambers, London."

This letter, I was convinced, would afford me some information; indeed,
the address would give me a clew to what I wanted. I was kneeling on one
knee, with this letter in my hand, when the door of the library suddenly
opened, and my uncle stepped into the room.

"Ernest Thornton!" cried he, in tones so full of terror that they
pierced my soul.

He sprang towards me; but I stepped out of his way, though I was nearly
paralyzed by this unexpected interruption. I thrust the letter into my
pocket, and stood at bay near the window by which I had entered.

"What have you done?" gasped uncle Amos, as he staggered towards me, his
face pale as a sheet, and his limbs trembling in every fibre. "What
papers have you taken?"

"My father's will for one," I replied, almost as much disturbed as he
was.

"O Heaven!" groaned he.

"Uncle Amos, will you tell me now where my mother is?"

"O, Ernest! I am ruined!" exclaimed he, sinking into a chair.

"Will you tell me where my mother is?" I repeated, with all the
earnestness I could command.

"Is this the return you make to me for all my kindness to you?" he
added, in a choking voice. "I have given you all you wanted--boats,
money, everything. Have pity on me, Ernest. I--I shall--I shall go mad!"

"I should think you would," I replied, having in some degree recovered
my self-possession. "You told me my father left nothing for me; that my
mother was in an insane asylum."

"She is, Ernest--she is," said he.

"Where?" I demanded, in a loud, fierce tone.

"I cannot tell you. Where is Thomas? Send for him, and he will make it
all right. You shall have every dollar that belongs to you, Ernest. I am
a miserable wretch; but I did not do this deed for my own sake. Send for
Thomas."

"I have had enough of Thomas. He would cut my throat as readily as he
would turn his hand. Will you tell me where my mother is, or shall I
find her myself?"

"You cannot find her, Ernest. Be calm, and you shall have all. Send for
Thomas."

"I will not send for him. I don't care so much for the money as I do for
my mother. Tell me where she is, or send for her."

"She could not come."

"Then I can go to her."