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“Those were the exact words spoken by Eustace Moore, Nancy. I know them, as you perceive, by heart—they are, indeed, graven on my heart. The picture fades. Moore’s voice is silent. He has died since then. We do not know a single living person who has seen that assassin, who sent my only son to an early grave. For six long years we have searched for him—you, my child, know how well.”

“Yes, father,” answered Nancy, “I do know.”

“We have spent all our money,” continued the doctor, “we have employed the very best detectives—we have done all that human beings could do. I have lived on the hope that the day would come when I should see that wretch arrested, tried, hanged by the neck until he died. My hope is fading into the night. I have not found the murderer. You will find him, Nancy—you will carry on my work.”

“I hate the man,” said Nancy slowly and speaking with intense fervour. “When you recall that dreadful picture, I hate the man who murdered my brother as much as you do. I dream of him also night after night, and my hate is so deep that nothing in all the world can extinguish it; but how am I to carry on this awful search? Where you failed, how am I to succeed?”