“My mother!” cried Despard, passionately, and he covered the miniature with kisses.
“I buried your father,” said the stranger, after a long pause. “His remains now lie on Coffin Island, in their last resting-place.”
“And who are you? What are you? How did you find me out? What is your object?” cried Despard, eagerly.
“I am Mr. Wheeler,” said the stranger, calmly; “and I come to give you these things in order to fulfill my duty to the dead. It remains for you to fulfill yours.”
“That duty shall be fulfilled!” exclaimed Despard. “The law does not help me: I will help myself. I know some of these men at least. I will do the duty of a son.”
The stranger bowed and withdrew.
Despard paced the room for hours. A fierce thirst for vengeance had taken possession of him. Again and again he read the manuscript, and after each reading his vengeful feeling became stronger.
At last he had a purpose. He was no longer the imbecile—the crushed—the hopeless. In the full knowledge of his father’s misery his own became endurable.
In the morning he saw Langhetti and told him all.
“But who is the stranger?” Despard asked in wonder.