Oh! yes, I've turned your d----d scribblings to a useful purpose, so you needn't complain!" All this had been shouted out at the top of his voice and freely interlarded with expressions which I will not repeat; at the end he broke again into a laugh, and with a look, half idiotic, half devilish, pointed towards the grate.
"Good Heavens!" I said, "what have you done ?" By the side of the chair I saw a piece of brown paper, and, catching it up, read the address--"Messrs.

Davison, Paternoster Row"; in the fireplace was a huge charred mass.

Derrick caught his breath; he stooped down and snatched from the fender a fragment of paper slightly burned, but still not charred beyond recognition like the rest.

The writing was quite legible--it was his own writing--the description of the Royalists' attack and Paul Wharncliffe's defence of the bridge.

I looked from the half-burnt scrap of paper to the side table where, only the previous night, we had placed the novel, and then, realising as far as any but an author could realise the frightful thing that had happened, I looked in Derrick's face.