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At nine o'clock of the next morning a dubious knock upon the outer door of
Messrs. Jones, Brown & Robinson's chambers elicited a gruff “Come in,” from
Robinson, who being the youngest and worst paid of the firm, was expected to
give the most time and do the most work.

“It's not for me, of course, but”—confided Mr. Gillies to the door, as he
pushed it open and stood dumb before the gruff-voiced Robinson, who was
chafing his numb fingers over the stove.

“Good morning, sir. Are you looking for one of the firm? I'm Robinson,”
announced the lawyer, concisely, for the tall yellow man with the dubious look
did not strike him as a good investment for much politeness.

“Yes, sir. I was looking for one of the firm, although I'm sorry to trouble
you for nothing—”

“Heavens! what a voice the fellow's got. A splendid baritone. Should
like to hear him try `Suoni la Tromba,”' thought Mr. Robinson, who was a bit of
an amateur in musical matters. But he said:

“No trouble; no trouble, sir. Take a seat. You were saying—?”

“I got this letter last night. It is directed in my name, but I suppose there
is some mistake. I can't think that anybody knows of anything to my advantage.
I don't.”

Mr. Robinson's professionally quick eyes traversed the face, figure, and outward
adornment of the person so quietly uttering this forlorn sentiment, and
then fell upon the letter in his hand.

“Oh, yes. Mr. Gillies, I presume?”

“My name is Gillies,” admitted the clerk, dubiously.

“Of course. And this is your address?” pursued the lawyer, rustling the
letter.

“Yes. That is, I am in the post-office, and my name is John Q. Adams
Gillies.”

“Certainly. I made a few inquiries of Mr. Postmaster — before sending
this letter. It's all right, Mr. Gillies, I assure you. Step this way.”

And Mr. Robinson led the way to the inner office, pointed to a seat beside
the desk, and disposed himself in the arm-chair before it.

John Gillies looked troubled and anxious. For five-and-forty years he had
led an existence so completely isolated, his life had been so barren of any tie or
interest beyond his own welfare that even the slight excitement of receiving a
letter could, as we have seen, unnerve and distress him, and now the matter
seemed assuming an importance that terrified him. He wished for no news, good
or bad; he wished for no meddling eyes and fingers in his affairs, even though
they promised advantage. The man felt, in the hands of this shrewd lawyer, as
an oyster should, into whose shell a lobster insists upon thrusting a claw, with
promise that the interference shall result in nothing but good.

“I don't think I'd better sit down. I am sure it is some other Gillies that
you mean.”

“No, it's not. Sit down, sit down, sir, and I'll give you the whole story in a
nutshell,” insisted the lawyer, and the clerk slipped into the designated seat as
if it had been a dentist's chair.

The lawyer opened his note book.

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“Perhaps you remember, Mr. Gillies, one very icy day last winter, when an
old gentleman passing up the post-office steps in front of you, slipped, and in
falling fractured his collar-bone. You helped him up, called a carriage, and at
his desire drove with him to his hotel. You then, still at his request, sent a surgeon,
and in the evening returned to inquire for him.”

“Mr. Vaughn, you mean.”

“Reginald Vaughn, Esquire, late of—”

“He's dead then? Excuse my interruption.”

Mr. Robinson bowed stiffly, implying that he excused, but did not approve
of it, and after a significant pause, as waiting for further remarks from the client,
continued,

“You called twice afterward by Mr. Vaughn's express desire, and went with
him to the steamer when he left for Europe. He died in London six weeks ago,
and just before his death dictated an instrument bequeathing all his property to
John Q. Adams Gillies, clerk in the post-office of this city. That gentleman is
undoubtedly yourself, and you will please receive my congratulations upon your
accession of fortune.”

John Gillies leaned his sallow face upon his hand, and looked moodily into
the fire.

“It was contrary to my usual habit to make these calls. I only did it because
I was asked, and the old man said something about being lonely and deserted.
As for picking him up and taking him home, I couldn't help that, of course.”

“Why, surely, man, you're not sorry for having induced Mr. Vaughn to think
of you as his legatee?” asked Mr. Robinson, rather impatiently. “If it is your
situation in the post-office that you are regretting, I see no necessity for your
resigning it. Probably, too, you can sell the estate. Stop, I should give you
this packet forwarded with the will, and addressed to yourself. In a letter to
us, written at the same time, Mr. Vaughn speaks of it as containing important
conditions connected with the inheritance. Here it is.”

“Another letter,” muttered John Gillies, as he reluctantly took a sealed envelope
from the lawyer's hand.

The letter it contained was not a long one, but Mr. Robinson had time to
lose and regain his patience and to lose it again, before his new client, slowly
re-folding the paper, placed it in the envelope and the envelope in his pocket.

“Well!” said the lawyer at length, for Mr. Gillies, his chin buried in his
hand, seemed less and less likely to break the silence.

“Well!” echoed he, rather irritably. “But it is not well. If I accept this
property under the conditions imposed upon me the consequence will be an entire
revolution of my life. I am to make this estate of Cragness my home, and
for company—”

The lawyer waited for the next word, but John Gillies's dry lips closed over
it before it could escape, and when they unclosed it was to say,

“You were Mr. Vaughn's legal adviser, were you not?”

“Yes. Our firm has managed the affairs of the Vaughns for fifty years.”

“Probably, then, you can give me some history of the family.”

“Legal and medical advisers do not generally gossip of the affairs of their
clients,” said Mr. Robinson, drily.

“Certainly not, but if I assume this property, I assume with it a trust requiring
as minute an acquaintance with the history of the Vaughn family as I can
acquire.”

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“Does the late Reginald Vaughn desire you to apply to me for this history?”
asked Mr. Robinson, cautiously.

“In so many words.”

“Will you show me the letter expressing this desire?”

“I will show you that sentence. The body of the letter is intended for my
private eye.”

“An odd man—a very odd man was the late Reginald Vaughn,” muttered the
lawyer, as John Gillies again drew the envelope from his pocket, and slowly unfolding
the letter, doubled it so as to leave only two lines fully exposed to view.

“Nothing could be odder than his putting this trust and this property upon
me, and I had far rather have been left quiet where I was,” said the clerk, moodily.
“But even though I refused the whole affair, and went back to the post-office
as poor as I left it, the mischief is done. My ideas have got a wrench that
has unfitted them for their old groove. I should always be wondering why I
didn't accept fortune when it came to me, and fancying a thousand pleasures it
might have brought with it. And then this—this trust—interests me.”

He paused rather abruptly, and the lawyer ventured,

“It is a secret trust, you say.”

“Entirely a secret trust,” assented Gillies, gravely, “and as such I accept
it, and with it the bequest of Reginald Vaughn, and the utter change of life involved
in it. Here is the letter.”

Mr. Robinson took the paper and read—

“If you wish for such help as is to be found in a history of my family, you
may obtain it from either member of the firm of Jones, Brown & Robinson, our
solicitors for many years.”

“That is quite sufficient, Mr. Gillies, and I will gladly place such knowledge
as I have at your service,” said the lawyer, returning the letter.

Mr. Gillies simply bowed with the reluctant air which had accompanied him
through the interview, and the solicitor, after a moment of thought, began the
following narrative.