"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.
He remembered Joseph Duncombe's seeming goodness of heart, and wondered
if such a man could possibly be concerned in the darkest crime of which
mankind can be guilty.
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