There was a white slip of paper with his own name written upon it.

With trembling fingers he unfolded it.

Was he the heir to the riches of El Dorado, or was he destined to be a poor struggling artist?
The note was dated that very evening, and ran in this way: "MY DEAR ROBERT,--My secret shall never be used again.

I cannot tell you how I thank Heaven that I did not entirely confide it to you, for I should have been handing over an inheritance of misery both to yourself and others.

For myself I have hardly had a happy moment since I discovered it.