I knew it, for I remembered the empty sheath that hung at Rhodojani’s waist, and heard again Railton’s words, “Captain, it was your knife.”  As certainly as if I had fitted the weapon to its case, I knew that man had prompted father’s murder.  Even as I knew it my terror of him faded away, and a blind and helpless hate sprang up in its stead:  helpless now, but some day to be masterful and worthy of heed.  That the man who called himself Georgio Rhodojani was guilty of one death, I knew from the witness of my own eyes:  that he had two more lives upon his black account—­for the hand that struck my father had also slain my mother—­I knew as surely.

    “And the devil has got his due, my lads!”

No, not yet:  there was still one priceless soul for him to wait for.

“He was stabbed,” repeated Uncle Loveday, “stabbed to the heart, and from behind.  I found this blade as I examined your poor father’s body.  It was broken off close to the hilt, and left in the wound, which can hardly have bled at all.  Death must have been immediate.  It’s a strange business, Jasper, and a strange blade by the look of it.”

I took the blade from his hand.  It was about four inches in length, sharp, and curiously worked:  one side was quite plain, but the other was covered with intricate tracery, and down the centre, bordered with delicate fruit and flowers, I spelt out the legend “Ricordati.”

“What does that word mean?” I asked, as I handed back the steel.  My voice was so calm and steady that Uncle Loveday glanced at me for a moment in amazement before he answered—­

“It’s not Latin, Jasper, but it’s like Latin, and I should think must mean ‘Remember,’ or something of the sort.”

“‘Remember,’” I repeated.  “I will, uncle.  As surely as father was murdered, I will remember—­when the time comes.”

They were strange words from a boy.  My uncle looked at me again, but doubtless thinking my brain turned with grief, said nothing.

“Have you told anybody?” I asked at length.

“I have seen nobody.  There will be an inquest, of course, but in this case an inquest can do nothing.  Murderer and murdered have both gone to their account.  By the way, I suppose nothing has been seen of the man who gave evidence.  It was an unlikely tale; and this makes it the more suspicious.  Bless my soul!” said my uncle, suddenly, “to think it never struck me before!  Your father was to sail in the Belle Fortune, and this man gave the name of the ship as the James and Elizabeth.”

“It was the Belle Fortune, and the man told a falsehood.”

“I suppose it must have been.”

“I know it was.”

“Know?  How do you know?”

“Because the James and Elizabeth is lying at this moment in Falmouth Harbour, and her captain is down at the ‘Lugger.’”