Clay Hawkins, years gone by, had yielded, after many a struggle, to the migratory and speculative instinct of our age and our people, and had wandered further and further westward upon trading ventures. Settling finally in Melbourne, Australia, he ceased to roam, became a steady-going substantial merchant, and prospered greatly. His life lay beyond the theatre of this tale. His remittances had supported the Hawkins family, entirely, from the time of his father’s death until latterly when Laura by her efforts in Washington had been able to assist in this work. Clay was away on a long absence in some of the eastward islands when Laura’s troubles began, trying (and almost in vain,) to arrange certain interests which had become disordered through a dishonest agent, and consequently he knew nothing of the murder till he returned and read his letters and papers. His natural impulse was to hurry to the States and save his sister if possible, for he loved her with a deep and abiding affection. His business was so crippled now, and so deranged, that to leave it would be ruin; therefore he sold out at a sacrifice that left him considerably reduced in worldly possessions, and began his voyage to San Francisco. Arrived there, he perceived by the newspapers that the trial was near its close. At Salt Lake later telegrams told him of the acquittal, and his gratitude was boundless—so boundless, indeed, that sleep was driven from his eyes by the pleasurable excitement almost as effectually as preceding weeks of anxiety had done it. He shaped his course straight for Hawkeye, now, and his meeting with his mother and the rest of the household was joyful—albeit he had been away so long that he seemed almost a stranger in his own home.
But the greetings and congratulations were hardly finished when all the journals in the land clamored the news of Laura’s miserable death. Mrs. Hawkins was prostrated by this last blow, and it was well that Clay was at her side to stay her with comforting words and take upon himself the ordering of the household with its burden of labors and cares.
Washington Hawkins had scarcely more than entered upon that decade which carries one to the full blossom of manhood which we term the beginning of middle age, and yet a brief sojourn at the capital of the nation had made him old. His hair was already turning gray when the late session of Congress began its sittings; it grew grayer still, and rapidly, after the memorable day that saw Laura proclaimed a murderess; it waxed grayer and still grayer during the lagging suspense that succeeded it and after the crash which ruined his last hope—the failure of his bill in the Senate and the destruction of its champion, Dilworthy. A few days later, when he stood uncovered while the last prayer was pronounced over Laura’s grave, his hair was whiter and his face hardly less old than the venerable minister’s whose words were sounding in his ears.
A week after this, he was sitting in a double-bedded room in a cheap boarding house in Washington, with Col. Sellers. The two had been living together lately, and this mutual cavern of theirs the Colonel sometimes referred to as their “premises” and sometimes as their “apartments”—more particularly when conversing with persons outside. A canvas-covered modern trunk, marked “G. W. H.” stood on end by the door, strapped and ready for a journey; on it lay a small morocco satchel, also marked “G. W. H.” There was another trunk close by—a worn, and scarred, and ancient hair relic, with “B. S.” wrought in brass nails on its top; on it lay a pair of saddle-bags that probably knew more about the last century than they could tell. Washington got up and walked the floor a while in a restless sort of way, and finally was about to sit down on the hair trunk.
 
 
“Stop, don’t sit down on that!” exclaimed the Colonel: “There, now that’s all right—the chair’s better. I couldn’t get another trunk like that—not another like it in America, I reckon.”
“I am afraid not,” said Washington, with a faint attempt at a smile.
“No indeed; the man is dead that made that trunk and that saddle-bags.”
“Are his great-grand-children still living?” said Washington, with levity only in the words, not in the tone.
“Well, I don’t know—I hadn’t thought of that—but anyway they can’t make trunks and saddle-bags like that, if they are—no man can,” said the Colonel with honest simplicity. “Wife didn’t like to see me going off with that trunk—she said it was nearly certain to be stolen.”
“Why?”
“Why? Why, aren’t trunks always being stolen?”
“Well, yes—some kinds of trunks are.”
“Very well, then; this is some kind of a trunk—and an almighty rare kind, too.”
“Yes, I believe it is.”
“Well, then, why shouldn’t a man want to steal it if he got a chance?”
“Indeed I don’t know.—Why should he?”
“Washington, I never heard anybody talk like you. Suppose you were a thief, and that trunk was lying around and nobody watching—wouldn’t you steal it? Come, now, answer fair—wouldn’t you steal it?
“Well, now, since you corner me, I would take it,—but I wouldn’t consider it stealing.
“You wouldn’t! Well, that beats me. Now what would you call stealing?”
“Why, taking property is stealing.”
“Property! Now what a way to talk that is: What do you suppose that trunk is worth?”
“Is it in good repair?”
“Perfect. Hair rubbed off a little, but the main structure is perfectly sound.”
“Does it leak anywhere?”
“Leak? Do you want to carry water in it? What do you mean by does it leak?”
“Why—a—do the clothes fall out of it when it is—when it is stationary?”
“Confound it, Washington, you are trying to make fun of me. I don’t know what has got into you to-day; you act mighty curious. What is the matter with you?”
“Well, I’ll tell you, old friend. I am almost happy. I am, indeed. It wasn’t Clay’s tel............