The fifth bore a
name which was almost illegible. He brought it out into the room, and
examined it closely. There, covered thickly with time-stains and dust,
was the name: "Vendale."
The key hung to the box by a string. He unlocked the box, took out four
loose papers that were in it, spread them open on the table, and began to
read them. He had not so occupied a minute, when his face fell from its
expression of eagerness and avidity, to one of haggard astonishment and
disappointment. But, after a little consideration, he copied the papers.
He then replaced the papers, replaced the box, closed the door,
extinguished the candle, and stole away.
As his murderous and thievish footfall passed out of the garden, the
steps of the notary and some one accompanying him stopped at the front
door of the house. The lamps were lighted in the little street, and the
notary had his door-key in his hand.
"Pray do not pass my house, Mr. Bintrey," he said. "Do me the honour to
come in. It is one of our town half-holidays--our Tir--but my people
will be back directly. It is droll that you should ask your way to the
Hotel of me. Let us eat and drink before you go there."
"Thank you; not to-night," said Bintrey. "Shall I come to you at ten to-
morrow?"
"I shall be enchanted, sir, to take so early an opportunity of redressing
the wrongs of my injured client," returned the good notary.
"Yes," retorted Bintrey; "your injured client is all very well--but--a
word in your ear.
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