“No, indeed, uncle.”

“Till now,” proceeded old Augustus.  Valentine looked attentively in the failing light at the majestic wreck of the tall, fine old man.  He made out that the eyes were closed, and that the face had its usual immobile, untroubled expression, and the last words startled him.  “I have thought it best,” he continued, “not to leave you anything in my will.”

“No,” said Valentine, “because you gave me that two thousand pounds during your lifetime.”

“Yes, my dear; my memory does not fail me.  John will not be cursed with one guinea of ill-gotten wealth.  Valentine!”

“Yes, uncle, yes; I am here; I am not going away.”

“You have the key of my cabinet, in the library.  Go and fetch me a parcel that is in the drawer inside.”

“Let me ring, then, first for some one to come; for you must not be left alone.”

“Leave me, I say, and do as I tell you.”

Valentine, vexed, but not able to decline, ran down in breathless haste, found the packet of that peculiar sort and size usually called a banker’s parcel, locked the cabinet, and returned to the old man’s bed.

“Are we alone?” he asked, when Valentine had made his presence known to him.  “Let me feel that parcel.  Ah, your father was very dear to me.  I owe everything to him—­everything.”

Valentine, who was not easy as to what would come next, replied like an honourable man, “So you said, uncle, when you generously gave me that two thousand pounds.”

“Ill-gotten wealth,” old Augustus murmured, “never prospers; it is a curse to its possessor.  My son, my John, will have none of it.  Valentine!”

“Yes.”

“What do you think was the worst-earned money that human fingers ever handled?”

The question so put suggested but one answer.

“That thirty pieces of silver,” said Valentine.

“Ah!” replied Augustus with a sigh.  “Well, thank God, none of us can match that crime.  But murders have been done, and murderers have profited by the spoil!  When those pieces of silver were lying on the floor of the temple, after the murderer was dead, to whom do you think they belonged?”

Valentine was excessively startled; the voice seemed higher and thinner than usual, but the conversation had begun so sensibly, and the wrinkled hand kept such firm hold still of the parcel, that it surprised him to feel, as he now did, that his dear old uncle was wandering, and he answered nothing.

“Not to the priests,” continued Augustus, and as a pause followed, Valentine felt impelled to reply.

“No,” he said, “they belonged to his family, no doubt, if they had chosen to pick them up.”

“Ah, that is what I suppose.  If his father, poor wretch, or perhaps his miserable mother, had gone into the temple that day, it would have been a strange sight, surely, to see her gather them up.”

“Yes,” said Valentine faintly.  The shadow of something too remote to make its substance visible appeared to fall over him then, causing him a vague wonder and awe, and revulsion of feeling.  He knew not whether this old man was taking leave of sober daylight reason, or whether some fresh sense of the worthlessness of earthly wealth, more especially ill-gotten wealth, had come to him from a sudden remembrance of this silver—­or——­