an iron box, evidently of his own making, for he was a skilled workman and very ingenious. The box was heavy and strong, about ten inches long, eight inches wide and ten inches high. On it lay a letter to me. It ran thus: I stood appalled , the key in my hand.
Was it true? Was it a lie? I had spent all my savings on the funeral, and was poorer than ever. Remembering the old man’s oddity , his malice, his cleverness in mechanic arts, and the patent explosive which had helped to make him rich, I began to feel how very likely it was that he had told the truth in this cruel letter.
I carried the iron box away to my lodgings, set it down with care in a closet, laid the key on it, and locked the closet . “DEAR TOM: This box contains a large number of very fine pigeon-blood rubies and a fair lot of diamonds; one is blue—a beauty. There are hundreds of pearls—one the famous green pearl and a necklace of blue pearls, for which any woman would sell her soul—or her affections.” I thought of Susan. “I wish you to continue to have expectations and continuously to remember your dear uncle.
I would have left these stones to some charity, but I hate the poor as much as I hate your mother’s son,—yes, rather more. The box contains an interesting mechanism, which will act with certainty as you unlock it, and explode ten ounces of my improved, supersensitive dynamite— no, to be accurate, there are only nine and a half ounces. Doubt me, and open it, and you will be blown to atoms. Believe me, and you will continue to nourish expectations which will never be fulfilled.
As a considerate man, I counsel extreme care in handling the box. Don’t forget your affectionate uncle”. 10th - - Then I sat down, as yet hopeful, and began to exert my ingenuity upon ways of opening the box without being killed. There must be a way.