“Let Valentine know in such a case that I, his dead father, who delighted in him, would rather have seen him die in his cradle, than live by that land and inherit that gold.  I have been poor, but I have never turned to anything at Melcombe with one thought that it could mend my case; and as I have renounced it for myself, I would fain renounce it for my heirs for ever.  Nothing is so unlikely as that this property should ever fall to my son, but if it should, I trust to his love and duty to let it be, and I trust to you, Giles, to make this easy for him, either to get him away while he is yet young, to lead a fresh and manly life in some one of our colonies, or to find some career at home for him which shall provide him with a competence, that if such a temptation should come in his way, he may not find it too hard to stand against.

“And may the blessing of God light upon you for this (for I know you will do it), more than for all the other acts of dutiful affection you have ever shown me.

“When I desire you to keep this a secret (as I hope always), I make no exception in favour of any person whatever.

“This letter is written with much thought and full deliberation, and signed by him who ever feels as a loving father towards you.

“Daniel Mortimer.”

Valentine had opened the letter with a preconceived notion as to its contents, and this, together with excessive surprise, made him fail for the moment to perceive one main point that it might have told him.

When Brandon just as he finished reading came back, he found Valentine seated before the letter amazed and pale.

“What does it mean?” he exclaimed, when the two had looked searchingly at one another.  “What on earth can it mean?”

“I have no idea,” said Giles.

“But you have had it for years,” continued Valentine, very much agitated.  “Surely you have tried to find out what it means.  Have you made no inquiries?”

“Yes.  I have been to Melcombe.  I could discover nothing at all.  No,” in answer to another look, “neither then, or at any other time.”

“But you are older than I am, so much older, had you never any suspicion of anything at all?  Did nothing ever occur before I was old enough to notice things which roused in you any suspicions?”

“Suspicions of what?”

“Of disgrace, I suppose.  Of crime perhaps I mean; but I don’t know what I mean.  Do you think John knows of this?”

“No.  I am sure he does not.  But don’t agitate yourself,” he went on, observing that Valentine’s hand trembled.  “Remember, that whatever this secret was that your father kept buried in his breast, it has never been found out, that is evident, and therefore it is most unlikely now that it ever should be.  In my opinion, and it is the only one I have fully formed about the matter, this crime or this disgrace—­I quote your own words—­must have taken place between sixty and seventy years ago, and your father expressly declares that he had nothing to do with it.”