I only hope, for my sake, all this will not make any difference to your remaining at Maxfield." Mr Armstrong finished his toilet leisurely, and then proceeded to examine the packet.
It was a large envelope, addressed, "Frank Armstrong, Esquire," in the old man's quavering hand.
Within was another envelope, firmly sealed, on which the same hand had written these words-- "_To be given unopened into the hands of Roger Ingleton, junior, on his twentieth birthday_." The effort of writing those few words had evidently been almost more than the writer could accomplish, for towards the end the letters became almost illegible, and the words were huddled in a heap at the corner of the paper.

The sealing, too, to judge from the straggling blots of wax all over and the ineffective marks of the seal, must have been the labour of a painful morning to the feeble, half-blind old man.
To the tutor, however, as he held the missive in his hand, and looked at it with the reverence one feels for a token from the dead, it seemed to make one or two things tolerably clear.
First, that the contents, whatever they were, were secret and important, else the old man would never have taken upon himself a labour he could so easily have devolved upon another.

Secondly, that this old man, rightly or wrongly, regarded Frank Armstrong as a man to be trusted, and contemplated that a year hence he would occupy the same position with regard to the heir of Maxfield as he did now.
Having arrived at which conclusions, the tutor returned the packet to its outer envelope and locked the whole up in his desk.

Which done, he descended to the breakfast-room.
As he had expected, no one was there.

What was worse, there was no sign either of fire or breakfast.