The attorney began to hate Stanley Lake as none but a man of that stamp
can hate the person who mars a scheme of aggrandisement. But what was he
to do exactly? If the captain had his eye on the reversion, it would
require nice navigation to carry his plan successfully through.

On the other hand, it was quite possible that Wylder was a free agent,
and yet, for purposes of secrecy, employing another person to post his
letters at various continental towns; and this blunder might just as well
have happened in this case, as in any other that supposed the same
machinery.

On the whole, then, it was a difficult question. But there were Larcom's
conclusions about the mad-house to throw into the balance. And though, as
respected Mark Wylder, they were grisly, the attorney would not have been
sorry to be quite sure that they were sound. What he most needed were
ascertained data. With these his opportunities were immense.

Mr. Larkin eyed the Wylder correspondence now with a sort of reverence
that was new to him. There was something supernatural and talismanic in
the mystery. The sheaf of letters lay before him on the table, like
Cornelius Agrippa's 'bloody book'--a thing to conjure with. What
prodigies might it not accomplish for its happy possessor, if only he
could read it aright, and command the spirits which its spells might call
up before him? Yes, it was a stupendous secret. Who knew to what it might
conduct? There was a shade of guilt in his tamperings with it, akin to
the black art, which he felt without acknowledging. This little parcel of
letters was, in its evil way, a holy thing. While it lay on the table,
the room became the holy of holies in his dark religion; and the lank
attorney, with tall bald head, shaded face, and hungry dangerous eyes, a
priest or a magician.