Under these circumstances I have ordered a fire in my own room--a personal indulgence scarcely warranted by Sheldon's stipend--and I sit by my own fire pondering over the story of Matthew Haygarth's life.
On the table by my side are scattered more than a hundred letters, all in Matthew's bold hand; but even yet, after a most careful study of those letters, the story of the man's existence is far from clear to me.

The letters are full of hints and indications, but they tell so little plainly.

They deal in enigmas, and disguise names under the mask of initials.
There is much in these letters which relates to the secret history of Matthew's life.

They were written to the only creature amongst his kindred in whom he fully confided.

This fact transpires more than once, as will be seen anon by the extracts I shall proceed to make; if my influenza--which causes me to shed involuntary tears that give me the appearance of a drivelling idiot, and which jerks me nearly out of my chair every now and then with a convulsive sneeze--will permit me to do anything rational or useful.
I have sorted and classified the letters, first upon one plan, then upon another, until I have classified and sorted them into chaos.
Having done this, my only chance is to abandon all idea of classification, and go quietly through them in consecutive order according to their dates, jotting down whatever strikes me as significant.