“Ain’t nothin’ happened to him.  ’Twas him that made it happen to your letter.  And that letter of all letters!  You see, Zach he don’t exactly remember when ’twas he got it from the post office, but it must have been much as a week ago, sartin sure.  Anyhow, when he took out the lighthouse mail he left this letter in the pocket, and to-day, just now, when he got them other letters of yours and put ’em in the same pocket, he found the first one.  And when I see that ‘Cabot, What-d’ye-call-it and Cabot’ name printed out right on the envelope and it come over me that ’twas that letter he’d forgot and had been totin’ ’round with him, ‘well,’ says I.  ‘My Lord of Isrul!’ I says—­”

“Primmie!  Primmie, stop!  Stop—­please!  And tell me:  Where are those letters?”

“Hey?  I was goin’ to tell you. I put ’em right here on the dinin’ room table, but Miss Martha she carted ’em off upstairs to your bedroom.  Said she presumed likely you’d want to open ’em by yourself. I don’t see why—­”

“Hush!  Hush!  Where is—­ah—­Miss Phipps?”

“She’s in the settin’ room.  Told me not to disturb her, she wanted to be alone.  I—­”

Galusha hastened away, leaving the excited Miss Cash still talking.  From the foot of the stairs he caught a glimpse of Martha in the chair by the front window of the sitting room, looking out.  She must have heard him, but she did not turn her head.  Nor did he speak to her.  Time enough for that when he had read what was in those letters.

There they were, three of them, upon his bureau.  He picked up the one on top.  It bore upon the envelope the words “National Institute, Washington, D. C.,” and was, he knew, merely a monthly report.  Usually such reports were of great interest to him; this one was not.  He had really important matters to claim his attention.

The second letter was, obviously, that which the forgetful Zacheus had carried about with him for a week.  In the corner was the Cabot, Bancroft and Cabot name.  He tore it open.  An oblong slip of paper fell to the floor.  He did not even stoop to pick this up, for there was a letter, too.  It began: 

“Prof.  Galusha Bangs,
East Wellmouth, Mass.

“Dear sir: 

“Pursuant to your instructions in our conversation of recent date I am enclosing check representing your share of the new Tinplate re-issue, sale of rights, transfer of old stock, bonus, etc.  The transfer has been, as I told you I felt sure it would be, very advantageous and profitable to stockholders like yourself.  The amount due you, as shown in statement attached, is—­”

Galusha read no further.  What did he care for Tinplate, profits, business, or anything like that!  There was not a word in the letter concerning Wellmouth Development.  It was a bitter disappointment.

But there was the third letter, the letter from Nevada.  He opened that.  The first page which he looked at was that bearing the signature.  Yes, the letter was from George L. Thomas, and George L. Thomas was Cousin Gussie’s private secretary.  At last!