make it appear that he had committed suicide; a supposition which was strongly supported by the razors having been found thus displaced and removed from their case.  Two persons had probably been engaged in the attempt, one watching by the sleeping man, and ready to strike him in case of his awakening suddenly, while the other was procuring the razors and employed in inflicting the fatal gash, so as to make it appear to have been the act of the murdered man himself.  It was said that while the juror was making this suggestion Sir Arthur changed colour.  There was nothing, however, like legal evidence to implicate him, and the consequence was that the verdict was found against a person or persons unknown, and for some time the matter was suffered to rest, until, after about five months, my father received a letter from a person signing himself Andrew Collis, and representing himself to be the cousin of the deceased.  This letter stated that his brother, Sir Arthur, was likely to incur not merely suspicion but personal risk, unless he could account for certain circumstances connected with the recent murder, and contained a copy of a letter written by the deceased, and dated the very day upon the night of which the murder had been perpetrated.  Tisdall’s letter contained, among a great deal of other matter, the passages which follow:—­

“I have had sharp work with Sir Arthur:  he tried some of his stale tricks, but soon found that I was Yorkshire, too; it would not do—­you understand me.  We went to the work like good ones, head, heart, and soul; and in fact, since I came here, I have lost no time.  I am rather fagged, but I am sure to be well paid for my hardship; I never want sleep so long as I can have the music of a dice-box, and wherewithal to pay the piper.  As I told you, he tried some of his queer turns, but I foiled him like a man, and, in return, gave him more than he could relish of the genuine dead knowledge.  In short, I have plucked the old baronet as never baronet was plucked before; I have scarce left him the stump of a quill.  I have got promissory notes in his hand to the amount of ——­; if you like round numbers, say five-and-twenty thousand pounds, safely deposited in my portable strong box, alias, double-clasped pocket-book.  I leave this ruinous old rat-hole early on to-morrow, for two reasons:  first, I do not want to play with Sir Arthur deeper than I think his security would warrant; and, secondly, because I am safer a hundred miles away from Sir Arthur than in the house with him.  Look you, my worthy, I tell you this between ourselves—­I may be wrong—­but, by ——­, I am sure as that I am now living, that Sir A——­ attempted to poison me last night.  So much for old friendship on both sides.  When I won the last stake, a heavy one enough, my friend leant his forehead upon his hands, and you’ll laugh when I tell you that his head literally smoked like a hot dumpling.  I do not know whether his agitation was produced by