P. C. Breagh had gone back to his bedroom at the gardener's cottage,
under the garret where had slumbered the unlucky Jean Jacques Potier.
The pet rabbits of the young man were even now in a hutch in the
stable yard, and his striped house jacket and the green baize apron
he used to wear when cleaning the Tessier silver hung on a hook in
Madame Potier's closet, with the civil integuments of M. Potier, now
deceased.
It was too early to go to bed. He pulled off jacket and waistcoat,
filled and lighted the venerable briar root, and, sitting on his bed,
re-perused by the light of his tallow candle a letter in headings,
and bearing the date of September 23rd, which may be reproduced as
written, here: