check sobered him a little, and he
went back to the docks; he walked out to the farther end of that noble
line of berths, and sat down on the verge with his legs dangling over the
water. He waited an hour; it was six o'clock by the great dial at St.
George's Dock. His eyes were fixed on the _Shannon,_ which was moving
slowly up the river; she came abreast to where he sat. The few sails
requisite to give her steerage fell. Her anchor-chain rattled, and she
swung round with the tide. The clock struck the half-hour; a boat left
the side of the vessel and made straight for the steps near where he was
seated. A tall, noble-looking man sat in the stern-sheets beside the
coxswain; he was put ashore, and, after exchanging a few words with the
boat's crew, he mounted the steps which led him to Wylie's side, followed
by one of the sailors, who carried a portmanteau.

He stood for a single moment on the quay, and stamped his foot on the
broad stones; then, heaving a deep sigh of satisfaction, he murmured,
"Thank God!"

He turned toward Wylie.

"Can you tell me, my man, at what hour the first train starts for
London?"

"There is a slow train at 7:30 and an express at 9."

"The express will serve me, and give me time for breakfast at the
Adelphi. Thank you; good morning;" and the gentleman passed on, followed
by the sailor.

Wylie looked after him; he noted that erect military carriage and crisp,
gray hair and thick white mustache; he had a vague idea that he had seen
that face before, and the memory troubled him.

At 7:30 Wylie started for London; the military man followed him in the
express at 9, and caught him up at Rugby; together they arrived at the
station at Euston Square; it was a quarter to three. Wylie hailed a cab,
but, before he could struggle through the crowd to reach it, a railway
porter threw a portmanteau on its roof, and his military acquaintance
took possession of it.

"All right," said the porter. "What address, sir?"

Wylie did not hear what the gentleman said, but the porter shouted it to
the cabman, and then he did hear it.

"No. -- Russell Square."

It was the house of Arthur Wardlaw!

Wylie took off his hat, rubbed his frowzy hair, and gaped after the cab.

He entered another cab, and told the driver to go to "No. -- Fenchurch
Street."

It was the office of Wardlaw & Son.

CHAPTER XV.

OUR scene now changes from the wild ocean and its perils to a snug room
in Fenchurch Street, the i