Uncle Loveday was beaming with conscious pride in his own powers of penetration.  He acknowledged my admiring attention with a modest wave of the hand, and then proceeded to clear his throat ostentatiously, as one about to play a trump card.

“As I say, Jasper, this fellow must have had some purpose to drag him off to sea from an office stool—­some strong purpose, and, from what we know of the man, some ungodly purpose.  Now, the question is, What was it?  On the Rock, as you say, he charged John Railton with having a certain Will in his possession.  Your father started from England with a Will in his possession.  This is curious, to say the least—­very curious; but I do not see how we are to connect this with the man Simon’s sudden taste for the sea, for, you know, he could not possibly have heard of Amos Trenoweth’s Will.”

“You and aunt were the only people father told of it.”

“Quite so; and your father (excuse me, Jasper) not being a born fool, naturally didn’t cry his purpose about the streets of Plymouth when he took his passage.  Still, it’s curious.  Your father sailed from Plymouth and this pair of rascals sailed from Plymouth—­not that there’s anything in that; hundreds sail out of the Sound every week, and we have nothing to show when Simon and John started—­it may have been before your father.  But look here, Jasper, what do you make of that?”

I bent over the letter, and where my uncle’s finger pointed, read, “He says as you have Done Well to be . . . Wave.”

“Well, uncle?”

“Well, my boy; what do you make of it?”

“I can make nothing of it.”

“No?  You see that solitary word ’Wave’?”

“Yes.”

“What was the ship called in which your father sailed?”

“The Golden Wave.”

“That’s it, the Golden Wave.  Now, what do you make of it?”

My uncle leaned back in his chair and looked at me over his spectacles, with the air of one who has played his trump card and watches for its effect.  A certain consciousness of merit and expectancy of approbation animated his person; his reasoning staggered me, and he saw it, nor was wholly displeased.  After waiting some time for my reply, he added—­

“Of course I may be wrong, but it’s curious.  I do not think I am wrong, when I mark what it proves.  It proves, first, that these two ruffians—­for ruffians they both were, as we must conclude, in spite of John Railton’s melancholy end—­it proves, I say, that these two sailed along with your father.  They come home with him, are wrecked, and your father’s body is found—­murdered.  Evidence, slight evidence, but still worthy of attention, points to them.  Now, if it could be proved that they knew, at starting or before, of your father’s purpose, it would help us; and, to my mind, this letter goes far to prove that wickedness of some sort was the cause of their going.  What do you think?”