“Father and I each had one,” he said, in an awed whisper; “mother has often told me that.”
“Did you ever know what became of your father, Joe?” I inquired.
“No; he went away when I was a baby, and we never heard of him again. For that reason mother was sure he was dead, for she said he loved her and would not otherwise have deserted her.”
“Then,” said I, softly, “you are about to discover your father, Joe; for the man who wrote this and owned the locket could be none other.”
“Wrote what?” asked Uncle Naboth.
I had been hastily examining a flat book which accompanied the locket. It had leaves of coarse paper closely covered with writing in a fine, scholarly hand.
“Here is a manuscript which I believe I will read aloud,” said I. “It may be interesting to us, in view of our recent adventure, and I am sure it will tell Joe something about his father.”
As I spoke I turned over the pages to the end, and Uncle Naboth, peering over my shoulder, exclaimed:
“Why, it’s signed by John Lovelace. That must be the same Lovelace Pasha who discovered the treasure.”
“He was not a Pasha,” I returned, “although he was called so. He was not even entitled to the name of Lovelace, for here he tells us who he really was—John Herring.”