been the least ground for those reports, he would speedily have
tested them, by tearing down and rummaging the walls.

Nevertheless, the note of Mr. Scribe, so strangely recalling the
memory of my kinsman, very naturally chimed in with what had been
mysterious, or at least unexplained, about him; vague flashings
of ingots united in my mind with vague gleamings of skulls. But
the first cool thought soon dismissed such chimeras; and, with a
calm smile, I turned towards my wife, who, meantime, had been
sitting nearby, impatient enough, I dare say, to know who could
have taken it into his head to write me a letter.

"Well, old man," said she, "who is it from, and what is it
about?"

"Read it, wife," said I, handing it.

Read it she did, and then--such an explosion! I will not pretend
to describe her emotions, or repeat her expressions. Enough that
my daughters were quickly called in to share the excitement.
Although they had never dreamed of such a revelation as Mr.
Scribe's; yet upon the first suggestion they instinctively saw
the extreme likelihood of it. In corroboration, they cited first
my kinsman, and second, my chimney; alleging that the profound
mystery involving the former, and the equally profound masonry
involving the latter, though both acknowledged facts, were alike
preposterous on any other supposition than the secret closet.

But all this time I was quietly thinking to myself: Could it be
hidden from me that my credulity in this instance would operate