After idling away half the morning, Captain Jernam discovered that he had an important business letter to write to the captain of his trading ship, the "Pizarro." On opening his portfolio, the captain found himself without a single sheet of foreign letter-paper. He told this difficulty to his wife, as it was his habit to tell her all his difficulties; and he found her, as usual, able to give him assistance. "There is always foreign letter-paper in papa's desk," she said; "you can use that." "But, my dear Rosy, I could not think of opening your father's desk in his absence." "And why not?" cried Rosamond, laughing. "Do you think papa has any secrets hidden there; or that he keeps some mysterious packet of old love-letters tied up with a blue ribbon, which he would not like your prying eyes to discover? You may open the desk, George. I give you my permission; and if papa should be angry, the blame shall fall upon me alone." The desk was a large old-fashioned piece of furniture, which stood in the corner of Captain Duncombe's favourite sitting-room. "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. 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.