As Randolph read, he seemed to hear the captain's voice throughout the
letter, and even his low, characteristic laugh in the postscript. Then
he suddenly remembered the luggage which the porter had said the captain
had ordered to be taken below; but on asking that functionary he was
told a conveyance for the Victoria Docks had called with an order, and
taken it away at daybreak. It was evident that the captain had intended
the letter should be his only farewell. Depressed and a little hurt
at his patron's abruptness, Randolph returned to his room. Opening the
letter of credit, he found it was for a thousand pounds--a munificent
beneficence, as it seemed to Randolph, for his dubious services, and
a proof of his patron's frequent declarations that he had money enough
without touching the Dornton estates.
For a long time he sat with these sole evidences of the reality of his
experience in his hands, a prey to a thousand surmises and conflicting
thoughts. Was he the self-deceived disciple of a visionary, a generous,
unselfish, but weak man, whose eccentricity passed even the bounds of
reason? Who would believe the captain's story or the captain's motives?
Who comprehend his strange quest and its stranger and almost ridiculous
termination? Even if the seal of secrecy were removed in after years,
what had he, Randolph, to show in corroboration of his patron's claim?
Then it occurred to him that there was no reason why he should not go
down to the rectory and see Miss Eversleigh again under pretense of
inquiring after the luckless baronet, whose title and fortune had,
nevertheless, been so strangely preserved. He began at once his
preparations for the journey, and was nearly ready when a servant
entered with a telegram. Randolph's heart leaped. The captain had sent
him news--perhaps had changed his mind! He tore off the yellow cover,
and read,--
Sir William died at twelve o'clock without recovering consciousness.