“Captain Bradshaw, I have come to tell you a story. It is a sad one, sir, but not an uncommon one—not an uncommon one. I, such as you see me, was once a gentleman. My circumstances changed, and I took a very small shop in New Street, where I sold tobacco. I was not, as you see me now, a determined man—perhaps even a dangerous one. I was a broken-down, nervous old man, with only one stay, one hope, one pleasure in the world. I had a daughter, sir; a bright, happy, innocent girl. A man came to us, over and over again, and he won her heart. The old story, Captain Bradshaw, of love and trust. He promised her marriage—over and over again he promised it. But he had an uncle”—Captain Bradshaw started violently; he saw what was coming now. He remembered the conversation he had had with Frank upon this very subject of the tobacconist's daughter. He remembered the warning he had given, and Frank's promise not to go there again, and he grew very pale and faint as his visitor went on—“he had an uncle, sir—an uncle from whom he expected to inherit great wealth—and he dared not risk his anger by an open marriage with my child. He told her that the uncle could not live long, that at his death he would marry her openly, but that if he lived he would at any hazard marry her privately in a short time. Accidentally I gained her secret, and to test the truth of the story I watched for days outside that uncle's door, until I saw the man enter there; then, seeing that the story was true so far, I hoped for the best. You see what a poor, nervous, simple man I was. Even then he had ruined her. I never dreamt of it, or I, old and feeble as I am, would have killed him. A fortnight since, my child saw in the paper the marriage of this man with another. To-day, Captain Bradshaw, I have been down to Gravesend to identify the body of what was once my child. Were I a young man, I would take vengeance with my own hands; but I am old and helpless, and I call on you to give me justice. That man is your nephew, and he is a damned scoundrel!”