"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.