trange man,
doubling his fist, and shaking it savagely in Laud's face.

"It isn't for me to say that you did, for you know better than I do; but
you will pardon me if I say that the evidence points in this direction.
Hasbrook has been over to Belfast several times to work up his case. The
last time I saw him he was looking for Don John, who, I am afraid, is
rather leaky."

In spite of his bluff manners, Laud saw that the captain was not a
little startled by the information just imparted.

"The miserable little psalm-singer," growled the strange man, walking
the room, muttering to himself. "If he disobeys my orders, I'll thrash
him worse than--Hasbrook was thrashed."

"It is unpleasant to be suspected of a crime, and revolting to the
instincts of a gentleman," added Laud.

"Do you mean to say that I am suspected of a crime, you long-eared
puppy?" yelled the captain.

"I beg your pardon, Captain Shivernock, but it isn't agreeable to a
gentleman to be called by such opprobrious names," said Laud, rising
from his chair, and taking his round-top hat from the table. "I am
willing to leave you, but not to be insulted."

Laud looked like the very impersonation of dignity itself, as he walked
towards the door.

"Stop!" yelled the captain.

"I do not know that any one but Hasbrook suspects you of a crime," Laud
explained.

"I'm glad he does suspect me," added the strange man, more gently.
"Whoever did that job served him just right, and I envy the man that did
it."

"Still, it is unpleasant to be suspected of a crime."

"It wasn't a crime."

"People call it so; but I sympathize with you, for like you I am
suspected of a crime, of which, like yourself, I am innocent."

"Are you, indeed? And what may your crime be, Mr. Cavendish?"

"It is in this connection that I wish to state my particular business
with you."

"Go on and state it, and don't be all night about it."

"I may add that I also came to warn you against the movements of
Hasbrook. I will begin at the beginning."

"Begin, then; and don't go round Cape Horn in doing it," snarled the
captain.

"I will, sir. Captain Patterdale--"

"Another miserable psalm-singer. Is he in the scrape?"

"He is, sir. He has lost a tin box, which contained nearly fourteen
hundred dollars in cash, besides many valuable papers."

"I'm glad of it; and I hope he never will find it," was the kindly
expression of the eccentric nabob for the Christian nabob. "Was the box