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. "I don't believe he would have parted with that piece of gold," cried George, "not if he had been without a sixpence in the world." "And he was rich. It was the money he carried about him which tempted his murderer. It was near here that he met his fate--on this very spot, perhaps. Joyce told me that before my father-in-law built this house, there was a dilapidated building, which was a meeting-place for the vilest scoundrels in Ratcliff Highway. But how came that coin in Joseph Duncombe's desk?--how, unless Joseph Duncombe was concerned in my brother's murder?" This idea, once aroused in the mind of George Jernam, was not to be driven away. It seemed too hideous for reality; but it took possession of his mind, nevertheless, and he sat alone, trying to shut horrible fancies out of his brain, but trying uselessly. He remembered Joseph Duncombe's wealth. Had all that wealth been honestly won? He remembered the captain's restlessness--his feverish desire to run away from a home in which he possessed so much to render life happy. Might not that eagerness to return to the sailor's wild, roving life have its root in the tortures of a guilty conscience? "His very kindness to me may be prompted by a vague wish to make some paltry atonement for a dark wrong done my brother," thought George.