brother before. I should despise myself if I sat idle here."

So it happened that, just when Maxfield was preparing in a quiet way to
celebrate the coming of age of the heir; just as the gloom which had
followed on Captain Oliphant's tragic death was beginning to lift a
little and allow Tom and Jill decorously to think of football; just as
Rosalind was beginning to make up her mind that she was not destined for
ever to teach the elements of art and science to the Vicarage children;
just when everything seemed to be settling down for the last scene of
the drama, Roger and his tutor vanished once more on their familiar
wild-goose chase.

Dr Brandram grumbled; the county gentry shook their heads; Mr
Pottinger breathed again. No one thought well of the expedition; some
went so far as to make a jest of it.

Roger cared nothing for what people thought. With Armstrong to back
him, with Rosalind to bid him a brave God-speed, with his own stout
heart to buoy him up, and with his lost brother only ten years distant,
he could afford to start in good cheer, and let the world think what it
liked.

But the cheer was destined to failure. They heard of one or two vessels
called the "Cyclops," but respecting the crew or passengers, of none of
them was it possible to glean a word of news. The vessel in question
might have been ship, schooner, or barque; she might have been English,
American, Indian, or Australian; she might have foundered, or changed
her name, or been broken up for lumber. Lloyds knew her not. West
India merchants had never heard of her. Of all their quests, this
seemed the most vague and hopeless.

Up to the last, Roger stuck doggedly to it. Even if he spent his
majority in the London docks he would not turn tail. The tutor backed
up loyally, did most of the work, made most of the inquiries, never
grumbled or gibed or protested. When Roger looked most like giving in,
it was the tutor who put fresh heart into him.

"To-morrow," said Roger on the eve of his birthday, "I will give it up.
But there is a day yet."

And sure enough, on the last day, a vague ray of light came in the shape
of a telegram from the port-master at Havana, to whom, at the tutor's
suggestion, a message of inquiry had been sent:--

"_Cyclops known. Writing_."

Writing! A letter would take weeks to come, and they had but a day!
They hurried to the telegraph-office and sent an urgent message begging
particulars by wire whateve