And Mr. Larkin looked as much scared and astonished as if a spirit rose
up before him.

'_This_ is the letter--aye, this _is_ the letter.'

He repeated this from time to time as he turned it over and looked at the
postmark, and back again at the letter, and looked up at the date, and
down at the signature, and read the note through.

'Yes, this is it--here it is--this is it. There's no doubt whatever--this
is the letter referred to in the last--Wealdon, Martin, and the 150_l._'

And the attorney took out his keys, looking pale and stern, like a man
about to open the door upon a horror, and unlocked his safe, and took out
the oft-consulted and familiar series--letters tied up and bearing the
label, 'Mark Wylder, Esq.'

'Aye, here it is, Genoa, 20th, and this, Venice, 28th. Yes, the postmarks
correspond; yet the letter from Genoa, dated 20th, refers back to the
letter from Venice, written eight days later! the-- Well--I can't
comprehend--how in the name of--how in the name----'

He placed the two letters on his desk, and read them over, and up and
down, and pondered darkly over them.

'It is Mark Wylder's writing--I'll swear to it. What on earth _can_ he
mean? He can't possibly want to confuse us upon dates, as well as places,
because that would simply render his letters, for purposes of business,
nugatory, and there are many things he wishes attended to.'