About this time Despard received a call from Langhetti. “I am going away,” said the latter, after the preliminary greetings. “I am well enough now to resume my search after Beatrice.”

“Beatrice?”

“Yes.”

“What can you do?”

“I haven’t an idea; but I mean to try to do something.”

Langhetti certainly did not look like a man who was capable of doing very much, especially against one like Potts. Thin, pale, fragile, and emaciated, his slender form seemed ready to yield to the pressure of the first fatigue which he might encounter. Yet his resolution was strong, and he spoke confidently of being able in some mysterious way to effect the escape of Beatrice. He had no idea how he could do it. He had exerted his strongest influence, and had come away discomfited. Still he had confidence in himself and trust in God, and with these he determined to set out once more, and to succeed or perish in the attempt.

After he had left Despard sat moodily in his study for some hours. At last a visitor was announced. He was a man whom Despard had never seen before, and who gave his name as Wheeler.

The stranger on entering regarded Despard for some time with an earnest glance in silence. At last he spoke: “You are the son of Lionel Despard, are you not?”

“Yes,” said Despard, in some surprise.

“Excuse me for alluding to so sad an event; but you are, of course, aware of the common story of his death.”

“Yes,” replied Despard, in still greater surprise.

“That story is known to the world,” said the stranger. “His case was publicly tried at Manilla, and a Malay was executed for the crime.”

“I know that,” returned Despard, “and I know, also, that there were some, and that there still are some, who suspect that the Malay was innocent.”

“Who suspected this?”

“My uncle Henry Despard and myself.”

“Will you allow me to ask you if your suspicions pointed at any one?”

“My uncle hinted at one person, but he had nothing more than suspicions.”

“Who was the man?”

“A man who was my father’s valet, or agent, who accompanied him on that voyage, and took an active part in the conviction of the Malay.”

“What was his name?”

“John Potts.”

“Where does he live now?”

“In Brandon.”

“Very well. Excuse my questions, but I was anxious to learn how much you knew. You will see shortly that they were not idle. Has any thing ever been done by any of the relatives to discover whether these suspicions were correct?”

“At first nothing was done. They accepted as an established fact the decision of the Manilla court. They did not even suspect then that any thing else was possible. It was only subsequent circumstances that led my uncle to have some vague suspicions.”

“What were those, may I ask?”

“I would rather not tell,” said Despard, who shrank from relating to a stranger the mysterious story of Edith Brandon.

“It is as well, perhaps. At any rate, you say there were no suspicions expressed till your uncle was led to form them?”

“No.”

“About how long ago was this?”

“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.

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.”