Joseph Duncombe had been absent from River View Cottage little more than a month, and the life of its inmates had been smooth and changeless as the placid surface of a lake. They sought no society but that of each other. Existence glided by, and the eventless days left little to remember except the sweet tranquillity of a happy home.

It was on a wet, dull, unsettled July day that Rosamond Jernam found her life changed all at once, while the cause for that dark change remained a mystery to her.

After idling away half the morning, Captain Jernam discovered that he had an important business letter to write to the captain of his trading ship, the “Pizarro.”

On opening his portfolio, the captain found himself without a single sheet of foreign letter-paper. He told this difficulty to his wife, as it was his habit to tell her all his difficulties; and he found her, as usual, able to give him assistance.

“There is always foreign letter-paper in papa’s desk,” she said; “you can use that.”

“But, my dear Rosy, I could not think of opening your father’s desk in his absence.”

“And why not?” cried Rosamond, laughing. “Do you think papa has any secrets hidden there; or that he keeps some mysterious packet of old love-letters tied up with a blue ribbon, which he would not like your prying eyes to discover? You may open the desk, George. I give you my permission; and if papa should be angry, the blame shall fall upon me alone.”

The desk was a large old-fashioned piece of furniture, which stood in the corner of Captain Duncombe’s favourite sitting-room.

“But how am I to open this ponderous piece of machinery?” asked George. “It seems to be locked.”

“It is locked,” answered his wife. “Luckily I happen to have a key which precisely fits it. There, sir, is the key; and now I leave you to devote yourself to business, while I go to see about dinner.”

She held up her pretty rosy lips to be kissed, and then tripped away, leaving the captain to achieve a duty for which he had no particular relish.

He unlocked the desk, and found a quire of letter-paper. He dipped a pen in ink, tried it, and then began to write.

He wrote, “London, July 20th,” and “My Dear Boyd;” and having written thus much, he came to a stop. The easiest part of the letter was finished.

Captain Jernam sat with his elbows resting on the table, looking straight before him, in pure absence of mind. As he did so, his eyes were caught suddenly by an object lying amongst the pens and pencils in the tray before him.

That object was a bent gold coin.

His face grew pale as he snatched up the coin, and examined it closely. It was a small Brazilian coin, bent and worn, and on one side of it was scratched the initial “G.”

That small battered coin was very familiar to George Jernam’s gaze, and it was scarcely strange if the warm life-blood ebbed from his cheeks, and left them ashy pale.

The coin was a keepsake which he had given to his murdered brother, Valentine, on the eve of their last parting.

And he found it here — here, in Joseph Duncombe’s desk!

For some moments he sat aghast, motionless, powerless even to think. He could not realize the full weight of this strange discovery. He could only remember the warm breath of the tropical night on which he and his brother had bidden each other farewell — the fierce light of the tropical stars beneath which they had stood when they parted.

Then he began to ask himself how that farewell token, the golden coin, which he had taken from his pocket in that parting hour, and upon which he had idly scratched his own initial, had come into the possession of Joseph Duncombe.

He was not a man of the world, and he was not able to reason calmly and logically on the subject of his brother’s untimely fate. He shared Joyce’s rooted idea, that the escape of Valentine’s murderer was only temporary, and that, sooner or later, accident would disclose the criminal.

It seemed now as if the eventful moment had come. Here, on this spot, near the scene of his brother’s disappearance, he came upon this token — this relic, which told that Valentine had been in some manner associated with Joseph Duncombe.

And yet Joseph Duncombe and George had talked long and earnestly on the subject of the murdered sailor’s fate, and in all their talk Captain Duncombe had never acknowledged any acquaintance with its details.

This was strange.

Still more incomprehensible to George Jernam was the fact that Valentine should have parted with the farewell token, except with his life, for his last words to his brother had been —

“I’ll keep the bit of gold, George, to my dying day, in memory of your fidelity and love.”

There had been something more between these two men than a common brotherhood: there had been the bond of a joyless childhood spent together, and their affection for each other was more than the ordinary love of brothers.

“I don’t believe he would have parted with that piece of gold,” cried George, “not if he had been without a sixpence in the world.”

“And he was rich. It was the money he carried about him which tempted his murderer. It was near here that he met his fate — on this very spot, perhaps. Joyce told me that before my father-in-law built this house, there was a dilapidated building, which was a meeting-place for the vilest scoundrels in Ratcliff Highway. But how came that coin in Joseph Duncombe’s desk? — how, unless Joseph Duncombe was concerned in my brother’s murder?”

This idea, once aroused in the mind of George Jernam, was not to be driven away. It seemed too hideous for reality; but it took possession of his mind, nevertheless, and he sat alone, trying to shut horrible fancies out of his brain, but trying uselessly.

He remembered Joseph Duncombe’s wealth. Had all that wealth been honestly won?

He remembered the captain’s restlessness — his feverish desire to run away from a home in which he possessed so much to render life happy.

Might not that eagerness to return to the sailor’s wild, roving life have its root in the tortures of a guilty conscience?

“His very kindness to me may be prompted by a vague wish to make some paltry atonement for a dark wrong done my brother,” thought George.

He remembered Joseph Duncombe’s seeming goodness of heart, and wondered if such a man could possibly be concerned in the darkest crime of which mankind can be guilty. But he remembered also that the worst and vilest of men were often such accomplished hypocrites as to remain unsuspected of evil until the hour when accident revealed their iniquity.

“It is so, perhaps, with this man,” thought George Jernam. “That air of truth and goodness may be but a mask. I know what a master-passion the greed of gain is with some men. It has doubtless been the passion of this man’s heart. The wretches who lured Valentine Jernam to this house were tools of Joseph Duncombe’s. How otherwise could this token have fallen into his hands?”

He tried to find some other answer to this question; but he tried in vain. That little piece of gold seemed to fasten the dark stigma of guilt upon the absent owner of the house.

“And I have shaken this man’s hand!” cried George. “I am the husband of his daughter. I live beneath the shelter of his roof — in this house, which was bought perhaps with my brother’s blood. Great heavens! it is too horrible.”

For two long hours George Jernam sat brooding over the strange discovery which had changed the whole current of his life. Rosamond came and peeped in at the door.

“Still busy, George?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered, in a strange, harsh tone, “I am very b............