“Thirteen years ago!” exclaimed Mr. Duke, turning over the pages.  “Ah! now I begin to see your application.  Go on, Halcro.”

I then spoke of finding the charts, and described how the Pilgrim had touched at Kirkwall.

“She called at Kirkwall to put me ashore for hospital,” interposed Peter Brown.

“What!” exclaimed Mr. Duke.  “And are you going to say that this Pilgrim was the vessel in which Mr. Quendale sailed for Copenhagen?”

“Copenhagen was the port she sailed for—­calling at Akureyri, in Iceland,” quietly explained the dominie.  “Go on, Halcro.”

I then described the captain’s room, and told of the man I had seen lying dead in the sleeping bunk.  I spoke of the diamond ring.

“Have you got that ring?” asked the magistrate.

“Yes,” I said, feeling in my waistcoat pocket and producing it from the folds of a piece of muslin.  I handed it to the schoolmaster, whom I had not told about it before.  He examined the sparkling stones and handed it on to Mr. Duke.  I saw Mr. Duke eyeing it curiously.  As he looked at the inner circle of gold a light came to his eyes.

“Ah, hello!” said he.  “There are some letters engraved here.  Can you read them, dominie?  The characters are foreign.  It looks like German or Russian.”

Andrew took the ring nearer to the light.

“The characters are Danish!” said he excitedly.  “It is the name ‘Thora Quendale!’”

“Well, all this is unmistakable evidence,” said Mr. Duke.  “I think you have proved, Andrew, that this passenger on the Pilgrim and the owner of the Undine were one and the same person.  The ring is a lady’s ring.  Probably it belonged to Quendale’s wife.”

“I think it likely that he took it from his dead wife’s finger,” said the schoolmaster, handing the ring back to me.

“No, sir,” I said.  “The ring isna mine.  It belongs now to Thora, and Thora shall have it;” and making my way towards her I took her fair hand in mine.

White and smooth it was, like the hand of a lady, with long tapering fingers and shapely nails.  A strange new sensation came over me as I held it in my own rough palm.  My heart beat quicker, and I felt myself growing red in the face.

“Take the ring, Thora, and wear it for the sake of those who have gone before;” and I slipped the glistening ring upon her finger.

“Thank you, Halcro!” she said, very softly.  “Thank you!  I will wear it for my father and mother’s sake, and also for yours.”

“For my sake, Thora!” and I looked down into her eyes.

There was an expression in them that I had not seen there before.  I started back with a sudden recollection.  Here before me I saw the same blue eyes, the same fair hair, the same beautiful face and rounded neck that I had seen pictured in the locket that fell from the dead man’s hand on board the Pilgrim!  Here was proof added to proof.  There could no longer be any doubt in my mind that Thora was indeed the daughter of the beautiful woman who was cast ashore at Inganess, and whose body now lay in the old neglected graveyard across the moor—­the daughter of Thora and Ephraim Quendale.