by the father; that's what I call bargaining between relations."

"What can be in the casket?" asked the notary. "There it is," cried Van
Hout.

"Bring it here, Belotti."

"We must open it," said the lawyer, "perhaps she is trying to convey her
most valuable property across the frontiers."

"Open it? Contrary to the dead woman's express desire?" asked Van der
Werff.

"Certainly!" cried the notary. "We were sent here to ascertain the
amount of the inheritance. The lid is fastened. Take the picklock,
Meister. There, it is open." The city magistrates found no valuables in
the casket, merely letters of different dates. There were not many.
Those at the bottom, yellow with age, contained vows of love from the
Marquis d'Avennes, the more recent ones were brief and, signed Don Louis
d'Avila. Van Hout, who understood the Castilian language in which they
were written, hastily read them. As he was approaching the end of the
last one, he exclaimed with lively indignation:

"We have here the key of a rascally trick in our hands! Do you remember
the excitement aroused four years ago by the duel, in which the Marquis
d'Avennes fell a victim to a Spanish brawler? The miserable bravo writes
in this letter that he has....It will be worth the trouble; I'll
translate it for you. The first part of the note is of no importance;
but now comes the point: 'And now, after having succeeded in crossing
swords with the marquis and killing him, not without personal danger, a