earch. Twice already had he
and Armstrong been up to London to make inquiries, but without avail.
The billiard-marker of "L'Hotel Soult" had vanished as completely as--
well, as Mr Ratman.

"You know, of course," said the tutor once, with the rather
unsympathetic drawl in which he was wont to allude to the lost
Ingleton--"you know, of course, that if the man you want is Ratman, you
are having the assistance of the police in your search. A warrant is
out against him, and heaven and earth is being moved to capture him."

Roger sighed.

"I am looking for no one but my brother," said he, "Even if he turns out
to be this miscreant, I cannot help it."

"Quite so. Only it is right to remember that to find Ratman means to
hang him. That at least is the object the police have in view. But you
need not disturb yourself on that score. Roger Ingleton, major, if we
find him, may be a villain, but he won't be the murderer of Miss
Oliphant's father."

They returned presently, baffled, to Maxfield. No one at the depots, or
recruiting head-quarters, or pension offices could tell them a word of a
soldier or a sailor named Callot who might have enlisted or gone to sea
about twelve years ago. How could they expect it? Nor did the most
careful search among the old Squire's papers lead to the discovery of
any record of the supposed report of the lad's death.

As a matter of fact, if the billiard-marker at "L'Hotel Soult" was the
man, they had already traced him down to a date long subsequent to that
of his rumoured death.

Together they ransacked the memories of Dr Brandram, the Vicar, old
Hodder, and one or two other inhabitants who might be supposed to know
something of the matter. Very few there were who had seen the boy at
all. He had spent most of his time at school, and during his occasional
holidays had usually found all the amusement he needed in the ample
confines of the park.

No one had seen in black and white an announcement of his death. The
Squire had told the Doctor that news of it had arrived from abroad;
where and when and under what circumstances he never said. Old Hodder
remembered the story of the quarrel between father and son, and
identified the portrait as that of the missing lad. But, despite his
boasted "threescore years and ten," the old man was absolutely useless
in the present inquiry.

And so, thwarted at every turn, not knowing what to hope for, too proud
to own himself beaten, Roger ab