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 some solution.
Were they really addressed to him, or had he stolen them?
If the latter, then how had he succeeded in getting his picture on the same plate with Judge Henley's?
And what were those other more important documents on which he rested his claim?
These considerations flashed through my mind, yet I was sufficiently aroused to answer quickly, aware that even the slightest hesitancy might awaken suspicion.
"It would seem to be unanswerable," I replied, replacing letters and photograph on the desk.