to eat. As I relit the candle, he entered my room and stood
facing me, but he did not speak. His clothes were dripping
and he was blinking at me with strange, gleaming eyes. His
hair was snow-white, and as I looked into his face the
deathly pallor of it frightened me. His general appearance
was more than startling; it was uncanny.

"What can I do for you?" I asked.

Greatly to my surprise he made no reply, but with a look of
pain and great anxiety sank into a chair. Then he withdrew
from his pocket a letter which he extended to me. The
envelope was wet and dirty. It was directed to Kendric Lane,
Esq., No. Old Broad street, London, England. The address was
crossed and "22 Kirkland street, Liverpool," written under
it in the familiar hand of my guardian. A strange
proceeding! thought I. Was the letter intended for my
father, who was long dead, and who had removed from that
address more than ten years ago? The old man began to grin
and nod as I examined the superscription. I broke the seal
on the envelope and found the following letter, undated, and
with no indication of the place from which it was sent:

"Dear Brother--I need your help. Come to me at
once if you can. Consequences of vast importance to
me and to mankind depend upon your prompt compliance.
I cannot tell you where I am. The bearer will
bring you to me. Follow him and ask no questions.
Moreover, be silent, like him, regarding the subject of
this letter. If you can come, procure passage in the