be wrong, but it's curious. I do not think I am
wrong, when I mark what it proves. It proves, first, that these two
ruffians--for ruffians they both were, as we must conclude, in spite
of John Railton's melancholy end--it proves, I say, that these two
sailed along with your father. They come home with him, are wrecked,
and your father's body is found--murdered. Evidence, slight
evidence, but still worthy of attention, points to them. Now, if it
could be proved that they knew, at starting or before, of your
father's purpose, it would help us; and, to my mind, this letter goes
far to prove that wickedness of some sort was the cause of their
going. What do you think?"

Uncle Loveday cleared his throat and looked at me again with
professional pride in his diagnosis. There was a pause, broken only
by Mrs. Busvargus splashing in the back kitchen.

"Good heavens!" said my uncle, "is that woman taking headers?
Come, Jasper, what do you think?"

"I think," I replied, "we had better look at the tin box."

"Bless my soul! There's something in the boy, after all. I had
clean forgotten it."

The box was about six inches by four, and some four inches in depth.
The tin was tarnished by the sea, but the cover had been tightly
fastened down and secured with a hasp and pin. Uncle Loveday drew
out the pin, and with some difficulty raised the lid. Inside lay a
tightly-rolled bundle of papers, seemingly uninjured. These he drew
out, smoothed, and carefully opened.

As his eyes met the writing, his hand dropped, and he sank back--a
very picture of amazement--in his chair.

"My God!"

"What's the matter?"

"It's your father's handwriting!"

I looked at this last witness cast up by the sea and read, "The
Journal of Ezekiel Trenoweth, of Lantrig."

CHAPTER VIII.

CONTAINS THE FIRST PART OF MY FATHER'S JOURNAL; SETTING FORTH HIS
MEETING WITH MR. ELIHU SANDERSON, OF BOMBAY; AND MY GRANDFATHER'S
MANUSCRIPT.

It was indeed my father's Journal, thus miraculously preserved to us
from the sea. As we sat and gazed at this inanimate witness, I
doubt not the same awe of an all-seeing Providence possessed the
hearts of both of us. Little more than twenty-four hours ago had my
dead father crossed the threshold of his home, and now his voice had
come from the silence of another world to declare the mystery of his
death. It was some minutes before Uncle Loveday could so far control
his speech as to read aloud this prec