A WONDERFUL SEARCH—JACK BECOMES THE SEARCHER—A STARTLING DISCOVERY—THE LONG-LOST LETTER FOUND AT LAST—A MOST REMARKABLE FEAT—THE STORY OF THE SEALED LETTER.

There came a perplexed look to the face of the banker, as he said:

"It cannot be possible that I removed that letter."

"It is not only possible, but it is probable."

"But I searched for it."

"No doubt; but, sir, while searching were you as positive then as you are now that you had not removed the letter?"

"I may have been."

"You will permit me to make the search?"

"Certainly."

"All right, sir; leave me the keys of your private safe, then leave me alone in the room where your safe is located, and we will settle the question once and forever."

"You will not find the letter."

"You think so?"

"I am sure."

"Why are you so sure?"

"If I put it anywhere I put it in my private safe, and I have looked through the safe several times."

"Looked through?" repeated the detective.

"Yes."

"But never made a search?"

"I would call it a search."

"I might not."

"Very well, sir, you shall satisfy yourself. Here are my keys, and the safe is in that room built into the wall, and guarded as no other private safe is guarded in this city."

Jack pulled out his watch and said:

"It is after eleven o'clock; I may be hours. Will you trust me alone here until morning?"

"I will."

"Then you will retire?"

"I will, but if you do find the letter arouse me. But nonsense, you will never find it."

"I will never be satisfied until I have at least made a search for it. The document is too important to be passed over as lost by one who only looked for it. I will make a search, and, sir, I have a strange, weird premonition that I will find it."

"Then, sir, you would only be doing your duty if you hung me by the neck until I should die."

"We will not punish you as severely as that."

The detective was left alone with the safe and the keys in his possession, and as he opened the safe a feeling came over him as though he were really opening the doors of a tomb. Jack removed every article from the safe; removed every drawer and piled them on a table which he had placed for the purpose. It was evident that indeed he intended to make a search.

Having taken everything from the safe he commenced to return them one at a time. First the drawers, and he closely examined and sounded them—indeed his examination was as precise as though he had an object under a magnifying glass, and so he returned article after article and had spent three full hours. All was returned to the safe but one book, a sort of ledger. The detective took it in his hands, and as he did so he muttered:

"Well, I have one satisfaction—I have at least made a search."

He took the ledger, sat down on a chair, and placing the book on his knees commenced turning over leaf after leaf, and his method was but an indication of the thoroughness with which he had conducted the whole examination. We will admit that he had lost all hope of finding the letter, but he was determined that he should never reproach himself for any carelessness in carrying on the investigation.

Patiently and carefully he turned leaf after leaf until he had passed through nearly three-quarters of the heavily-bound volume, and then suddenly it fell from his lap, and he sat rigid like one suddenly chilled to the heart. His eye had fallen on a letter, and on it was written:

"To be opened after twenty years by Mr. Townsend."

The detective had not been expecting anything of the sort. He was turning the leaves mechanically, and we can add without hope, when, as stated, his eye fell upon a letter, and at a glance he read the superscription, and it was then that his heart gave a great bound and the heavy volume slid off his knees to the floor. It had come so suddenly, so unexpectedly that literally it took his breath away, but after a moment—yes, a full minute—he was able to exclaim:

"I have found it—found the letter at last. It has indeed been a remarkable feat. I deserve to have found it."

Jack was a young man of iron nerve. Of course the discovery had caused a shock, but quickly he recovered his self-possession. He stooped down, picked up the book, and calmly returned it to the safe, and then picked up the precious letter, for in the fall it had slid from the book. It was an exciting moment. He again read the writing on the letter, and there it was plain and bold: "To be opened after twenty years." He did not open the letter, for it was written to Mr. Townsend—yes, the banker was the only man who had the right to open the letter.

As stated, the detective had regained his self-possession. He was perfectly cool; he stepped into the adjoining room and drank a glass of water from a pitcher which had been left for him. Then he lit a cigar—did this equally as coolly. He stepped from the room and started up the stairs. At the door of the rear room on the second floor stood Mr. Townsend, pale and excited.

"I heard something heavy fall," said the banker.

"Yes, I dropped one of the books."

"Have you found it?" came the question in a husky voice.

"I have found something."

"What is it?"

"I will not attempt to decide. You will please come downstairs and decide for me."

"I will be down in one minute."

The detective returned to the library, and after a few minutes Mr. Townsend joined him. The detective was sitting in an easy-chair drawn up to the table, smoking as coolly and calmly as though taking a last whiff just before going to bed.

"Oh, dear me!" exclaimed the banker, when he beheld the detective sitting there so cool and apparently unconcerned, "I thought you had found something."

"So I have."

"It cannot be the letter; I did have hopes."

"What has dampened your hopes?"

"You are too cool for a man who has found the letter."

"I am?"

"Yes."

There came a smile to the detective's face, a smile that was thrilling in its suggestiveness, as he laid the letter on the table and said:

"Well, I have found something; you can tell what it is; look at it. No need to search now; I think the search is over."

Mr. Townsend advanced, seized the letter, and his face was ashen as he exclaimed, while trembling like one with ague:

"That is it."

"I thought so," said the detective.

"Yes, that is the letter."

"I thought so, and did not open it because it is written on it 'To be opened by Mr. Townsend only.'"

"Where did you find it?"

"Never mind where I found it; what have I found?"

"You have found the letter which was left with me by Jacob Canfield."

"You are certain?"

"I am. No doubt as to its identity. I must have removed it from the safe in my office."

"No doubt."

"Yes, it's one of the most remarkable lapses of memory."

"It is not so remarkable."

"Where did you find it?"

Jack told where he had found the long missing letter, and then said:

"Now, sir, all you have to do is to open that letter and we will learn what you are directed to do."

"We would have been wise to have searched for the letter at first."

"Oh, no, we have prepared the way now to act on what the letter may disclose. But read it."

"I will open it; you read it. I am so overcome I have not the strength to do so."

"All right."

Mr. Townsend did open the letter. We will not attempt to produce its contents in detail, but relate the main facts wherein the strange mystery of the extraordinary deposit was fully cleared up, and also how the remarkable cleverness of Detective Jack Alvarez was fully and most amazingly verified.

Jack had traced down to the real character. Jacob Canfield was the man who had made the deposit, and as Jack had discerned he held the money in trust. One morning the fishermen along the Jersey coast discovered a bark in distress off the shore. It was in the midst of one of the fiercest northeast storms in the remembrance of any man. No boat could go to the aid of the crew, and all efforts to send a line proved futile, and through the day the vessel was seen beating and thumping, and when night fell it was decided that ere morning she would have gone to pieces. Among those who were on the beach was Jacob Canfield, and at night he walked along the beach, when from the breakers he heard a cry. Jake was a powerful swimmer, and he ran down into the water, and it did seem as though in fitness of time and place his rush was providential. He saw a figure, brought in on a wave, and he plunged forward, seized the form of a man who had lost his strength and was being carried back, never to be plunged forward again alive. Jake dragged the half-drowned man ashore and carried him to his own little home. At that time he lived alone, a widower. After hours of work he managed to restore the man to life, and at the rescued passenger's request he let no one know of the rescue. In the meantime, during the night the storm went down, and lo, the stanch bark withstood the mad assaults of the waves, and life savers in good time were able to go aboard. They did so and later saved every man of the crew. There was one passenger, however, missing, named Harold Stevens. He was the only passenger, and he was washed overboard and drowned—that is, so every one believed. Luck favored the crew, as later on the baggage of the sailors was saved, and also the baggage of the missing passenger.

Meantime, as the rescued man revealed to Jake Canfield, he was Harold Stevens, and Jake was sent to bring the captain of the bark to his cottage, and the rescued passenger and the captain of the bark had a long conference. Later Harold Stevens went to New York, and being identified his baggage was delivered to him, and no one on the beach ever knew that Jake Canfield had been the saver of the life of the passenger reported as drowned. Six months passed, and Jake married and entered into the misery of his second-hand family, and as he stated in his letter in confirmation of old Berwick, his misery began at once. He learned that he had married an evil woman with an evil lot of children. Jake, however, was not a man to complain, and one day after the expiration of two years following the loss of the bark he received a summons to New York, and there met the man whose life he had saved.