But he remembered also that the worst and vilest
of men were often such accomplished hypocrites as to remain unsuspected
of evil until the hour when accident revealed their iniquity.
"It is so, perhaps, with this man," thought George Jernam. "That air of
truth and goodness may be but a mask. I know what a master-passion the
greed of gain is with some men. It has doubtless been the passion of
this man's heart. The wretches who lured Valentine Jernam to this house
were tools of Joseph Duncombe's. How otherwise could this token have
fallen into his hands?"
He tried to find some other answer to this question; but he tried in
vain. That little piece of gold seemed to fasten the dark stigma of
guilt upon the absent owner of the house.
"And I have shaken this man's hand!" cried George. "I am the husband of
his daughter. I live beneath the shelter of his roof--in this house,
which was bought perhaps with my brother's blood. Great heavens! it is
too horrible."
For two long hours George Jernam sat brooding over the strange
discovery which had changed the whole current of his life. Rosamond
came and peeped in at the door.
"Still busy, George?" she asked.
"Yes," he answered, in a strange, harsh tone, "I am very busy."
That altered voice alarmed the loving wife. She crept into the room,
and stood behind her husband's chair.
"George," she said, "your voice sounded so strange just now; you are
not ill, are you, darling?"
"No, no; I only want to be alone.
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