Without another word he began to read it. And as he read all his soul became associated with that lonely man, drifting in his drifting ship. There he read the villainy of the miscreant who had compassed his death, and the despair of the castaway. That suffering man was his own father. It was this that gave intensity to his thoughts as he read. The dying man bequeathed his vengeance to Ralph Brandon, and his blessing to his son. Despard read over the manuscript many times. It was his father’s words to himself. “I am in haste,” said the stranger. “The manuscript is yours. I have made inquiries for Ralph Brandon, and find that he is dead. It is for you to do as seems good. You are a clergyman, but you are also a man; and a father’s wrongs cry to Heaven for vengeance.” “And they shall be avenged!” exclaimed Despard, striking his clenched hand upon the table. “I have something more before I go,” continued the stranger, mournfully--“something which you will prize more than life. It was worn next your father’s heart till he died. I found it there.” Saying this he handed to Despard a miniature, painted on enamel, representing a beautiful woman, whose features were like his own. “My mother!” cried Despard, passionately, and he covered the miniature with kisses. “I buried your father,” said the stranger, after a long pause. “His remains now lie on Coffin Island, in their last resting-place.” “And who are you? What are you? How did you find me out? What is your object?” cried Despard, eagerly. “I am Mr. Wheeler,” said the stranger, calmly; “and I come to give you these things in order to fulfill my duty to the dead. It remains for you to fulfill yours.” “That duty shall be fulfilled!” exclaimed Despard. “The law does not help me: I will help myself. I know some of these men at least. I will do the duty of a son.” The stranger bowed and withdrew. Despard paced the room for hours. A fierce thirst for vengeance had taken possession of him. Again and again he read the manuscript, and after each reading his vengeful feeling became stronger. At last he had a purpose. He was no longer the imbecile--the crushed--the hopeless. In the full knowledge of his father’s misery his own became endurable. In the morning he saw Langhetti and told him all. “But who is the stranger?” Despard asked in wonder. “It can only be one person,” said Langhetti, solemnly. “Who?” “Louis Brandon. He and no other. Who else could thus have been chosen to find the dead? He has his wrongs also to avenge.” Despard was silent. Overwhelming thoughts crowded upon him. Was this man Louis Brandon? “We must find him,” said he. “We must gain his help in our work. We must also tell him about Edith.” “Yes,” replied Langhetti. “But no doubt he has his own work before him; and this is but part of his plan, to rouse you from inaction to vengeance.” CHAPTER XLVIII. WHO IS HE?