They were without envelopes, each
beginning simply, "My Dear Son," relating principally to local
conditions on the plantation, and occasionally expressing a desire for
the wanderer to return, and assume the burden of management. Instead
of names, initials were employed to designate individuals referred to,
and it was evident the recipient had been addressed at various places.
That they were in the crabbed and peculiar handwriting of the old Judge
was beyond all question, and the dates covered several years. 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.
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