These, we presume, indicated the nature of the papers which had been destroyed

by Colonel Openshaw. For the rest, there was nothing of much importance in the

attic save a great many scattered papers and note-books bearing upon my

uncle’s life in America. Some of them were of the war time and showed

that he had done his duty well and had borne the repute of a brave soldier.

Others were of a date during the reconstruction of the Southern states, and

were mostly concerned with politics, for he had evidently taken a strong part

in opposing the carpet-bag politicians who had been sent down from the North.


“Well, it was the beginning of ’84 when my father came to live at

Horsham, and all went as well as possible with us until the January of

’85. On the fourth day after the new year I heard my father give a sharp

cry of surprise as we sat together at the breakfast-table. There he was,

sitting with a newly opened envelope in one hand and five dried orange pips in

the outstretched palm of the other one. He had always laughed at what he called

my cock-and-bull story about the colonel, but he looked very scared and puzzled

now that the same thing had come upon himself.


“‘Why, what on earth does this mean, John?’ he

stammered.


“My heart had turned to lead. ‘It is K. K. K.,’ said I.


“He looked inside the envelope. ‘So it is,’ he cried.

‘Here are the very letters. But what is this written above them?’


“‘Put the papers on the sundial,’ I read, peeping over

his shoulder.


“‘What papers? What sundial?’ he asked.


“‘The sundial in the garden. There is no other,’ said

I; ‘but the papers must be those that are destroyed.’


“‘Pooh!’ said he, gripping hard at his courage.

‘We are in a civilised land here, and we can’t have tomfoolery of

this kind. Where does the thing come from?’


“‘From Dundee,’ I answered, glancing at the postmark.


“‘Some preposterous practical joke,’ said he.