The casket was of course much tarnished and
dinted with age, but otherwise in fairly sound condition.
I drew it out and set it on the table, and then, in the midst of the
most perfect silence, I inserted the strange-looking silver key, and
pressed this way and that until at last the lock yielded, and the casket
stood before us. It was filled to the brim with some brown shredded
material, more like vegetable fibre than paper, the nature of which I
have never been able to discover. This I carefully removed to the depth
of some three inches, when I came to a letter enclosed in an ordinary
modern-looking envelope, and addressed in the handwriting of my dead
friend Vincey.
"_To my son Leo, should he live to open this casket._"
I handed the letter to Leo, who glanced at the envelope, and then put it
down upon the table, making a motion to me to go on emptying the casket.
The next thing that I found was a parchment carefully rolled up. I
unrolled it, and seeing that it was also in Vincey's handwriting, and
headed, "Translation of the Uncial Greek Writing on the Potsherd," put
it down by the letter.
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