“About two years ago--a little more, perhaps. I at once devoted myself to the task of discovering whether they could be maintained. I found it impossible, however, to learn any thing. The event had happened so long ago that it had faded out of men’s minds. The person whom I suspected had become very rich, influential, and respected. In fact, he was unassailable, and I have been compelled to give up the effort.” “Would you like to learn something of the truth?” asked the stranger, in a thrilling voice. Despard’s whole soul was roused by this question. “More than any thing else,” replied he. “There is a sand-bank,” began the stranger, “three hundred miles south of the island of Java, which goes by the name of Coffin Island. It is so called on account of a rock of peculiar shape at the eastern extremity. I was coming from the East, on my way to England, when a violent storm arose, and I was cast ashore alone upon that island. This may seem extraordinary to you, but what I have to tell is still more extraordinary. I found food and water there, and lived for some time. At last another hurricane came and blew away all the sand from a mound at the western end. This mound had been piled about a wrecked vessel--a vessel wrecked twenty years ago, twenty years ago,” he repeated, with startling emphasis, “and the name of that vessel was the _Vishnu_.” “The _Vishnu_!” cried Despard, starting to his feet, while his whole frame was shaken by emotion at this strange narrative. “_Vishnu_!” “Yes, the _Vishnu_!” continued the stranger. “You know what that means. For many years that vessel had lain there, entombed amidst the sands, until at last I--on that lonely isle--saw the sands swept away and the buried ship revealed. I went on board. I entered the cabin. I passed through it. At last I entered a room at one corner. A skeleton lay there. Do you know whose it was?” “Whose?” cried Despard, in a frenzy of excitement. “_Your father’s_!” said the stranger, in an awful voice. “God in heaven!” exclaimed Despard, and he sank back into his seat. “In his hand he held a manuscript, which was his last message to his friends. It was inclosed in a bottle. The storm had prevented him from throwing it overboard. He held it there as though waiting for some one to take it. I was the one appointed to that task. I took it. I read it, and now that I have arrived in England I have brought it to you.” “Where is it?” cried Despard, in wild excitement. “Here,” said the stranger, and he laid a package upon the table. Despard seized it, and tore open the coverings. At the first sight he recognized the handwriting of his father, familiar to him from old letters written to him when he was a child--letters which he had always preserved, and every turn of which was impressed upon his memory. The first glance was sufficient to impress upon his mind the conviction that the stranger’s tale was true.