"Certainly," said he.

"Ay," added Chubb, against all the etiquette of the situation, "it can
be allowed, as you're not like to read any more letters."

I tore it open, disdaining to reply in words to a gratuitous taunt I
could soon answer by deed. The doctor having handed me his lantern, I
held it in one hand, the letter in the other. The writing was that of
Philip Winwood, and the letter read as follows:

"DEAR BERT:--I have learned what sad things have befallen. You
will easily guess my informant; but I know you will not use your
knowledge of my communication therewith, to the detriment
thereof. And I am sure that, since I ask it, you will not betray
(or, by any act or disclosure, imperil or hamper) the messenger
who brings this at risk of his life; for the matter is a private
one.

"Pondering upon all that has occurred, I am put in a fear of your
forgetting whose right it is to avenge it, and of your taking
that duty to yourself, which belongs by every consideration to
me. This is to beg, therefore, that you will not forestall me;
that while I live you will leave this matter to me, at whatsoever
cost though it be to your pride and your impatience. Dear Bert, I
enjoin you, do not usurp my prerogative. By all the ties between
us, past and to come, I demand this of you. _The man is mine to
kill_. Let him wait my time, and I shall be the more, what I long
have been, Ever thine,