When we had dressed the wound, I turned to the trap to lift out Mrs
Cottier's parcels, which I carried indoors. Breakfast was ready on the
table, and Mrs Cottier and Hugh were toasting some bread at the
fire. My aunt was, of course, breakfasting upstairs with my uncle; he
was hardly able to stir with sciatica, poor man; he needed somebody to
feed him.

"Good morning, Mims dear," I cried. "What do you think? The trap's
come back and here are all your parcels." I noticed then (I had not
noticed it before) that one of the parcels was very curiously
wrapped. It was wrapped in an old sack, probably one of those which
filled the windows of the barn, for bits of straw still stuck in the
threads.

"Whatever have you got there, Jim?" said Mrs Cottier.

"One of your parcels," I answered; "I've just taken it out of the
trap."

"Let me see it," she said. "There must be some mistake. That's not one
of mine." She took the parcel from me and turned it over before
opening it.

On turning the package over, we saw that some one had twisted a piece
of dirty grey paper (evidently wrapping-paper from the grocer's shop)
about the rope yarn which kept the roll secure. Mrs Cottier noticed it
first. "Oh," she cried, "there's a letter, too. I wonder if it's meant
for me?"

We untied the rope yarn and the paper fell upon the table; we opened