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.