earth has he managed to get it?"

The Major, however, was not so far gone as he looked; he caught up
the remark and turned towards us with a hideous laugh.

"Ah, yes," he said, "that's the question. But the old man has still
some brains, you see. I'll be even with you yet, Derrick. You
needn't think you're to have it all your own way. It's my turn now.
You've deprived me all this time of the only thing I care for in
life, and now I turn the tables on you. Tit for tat. Oh! yes, I've
turned your d--d scribblings to a useful purpose, so you needn't
complain!"

All this had been shouted out at the top of his voice and freely
interlarded with expressions which I will not repeat; at the end he
broke again into a laugh, and with a look, half idiotic, half
devilish, pointed towards the grate.

"Good Heavens!" I said, "what have you done?"

By the side of the chair I saw a piece of brown paper, and, catching
it up, read the address--"Messrs. Davison, Paternoster Row"; in the
fireplace was a huge charred mass. Derrick caught his breath; he
stooped down and snatched from the fender a fragment of paper
slightly burned, but still not charred beyond recognition like the
rest. The writing was quite legible--it was his own writing--the
description of the Royalists' attack and Paul Wharncliffe's defence
of the bridge. I looked from the half-burnt scrap of paper to the
side table where, only the previous night, we had placed the novel,
and then, realising as far as any but an author could realise the