“You mean you wish to assure yourself I have the right of it,” he asked smilingly, “before you enlist?  There is nothing unreasonable to that.  Unfortunately, however,” and he picked up the papers from the desk, “I can only furnish you corroborative proofs now.  Still, I think these will be convincing.  The legal papers, which absolutely establish my identity as Philip Henley, are in the hands of lawyers, who represent me at Carrollton.  The case will not come up for adjudication for several weeks yet,” speaking slowly, and with careful choice of words, “but my contention as heir to the property is thoroughly established.  It had to be, for as you know the Judge’s son had been away from this neighborhood for years, practically ever since boyhood.  He was almost unknown to the local inhabitants, even to the servants.  He was even reported as being dead.  This state of affairs made identification the most important thing to be considered.  Consequently all documents bearing directly on that point are, at present, out of my reach.  You understand?”

“Yes; only you must have retained something to substantiate your word.”

“Precisely.  I was coming to that.  I have letters from my father which should be sufficient.  You have seen Judge Henley’s writing?” and he handed me a half dozen missives.  They were without envelopes, each beginning simply, “My Dear Son,” relating principally to local conditions on the plantation, and occasionally expressing a desire for the wanderer to return, and assume the burden of management.  Instead of names, initials were employed to designate individuals referred to, and it was evident the recipient had been addressed at various places.  That they were in the crabbed and peculiar handwriting of the old Judge was beyond all question, and the dates covered several years.  I read them through carefully, puzzled by their contents.

“There are no envelopes?”

“No; I never keep them—­why?”

“Only that no name is mentioned; they begin all alike, ‘My Dear Son.’”

“I never thought of that,” he, admitted, simulating surprise, “but can supplement by showing you this picture, taken three years ago at Mobile.  Of course you will recognize myself, but may never have seen a photograph of Judge Henley.”

“I never have.”

“Well, that is his likeness, and there are those on board who will identify it.  Does this satisfy you that I am what I claim to be?”

In truth it did not, for I would have believed nothing in opposition to the positive statement of the woman that he was not Philip Henley.  Her simple assertion weighed more with me than any proofs he might submit.  Yet his coolness of demeanor, and the tone of the letters, evidently written in confidence from father to son, were unanswerable.  Under other conditions—­divorced from what I knew—­they would be conclusive.  Now I could only wonder at them, groping blindly for