after my return from Bournemouth I was completely immersed in the
toils of Hatton Garden, had no thought above the sale of pearls and the
fluctuations in the price of shell; yet, notwithstanding all this, the
afternoon of the third day found me kicking my heels on the pavement of
Trafalgar Square, my mind quite made up, my passage booked, and my
ticket for Australia stowed away in my waistcoat pocket.

As I stood there the grim, stone faces of the lions above me were
somehow seen obscurely, Nelson's monument was equally unregarded, for my
thoughts were far away with my mind's eye, following an ocean
mail-steamer as she threaded her tortuous way between the Heads and
along the placid waters of Sydney Harbour.

So wrapped up was I in the folds of this agreeable reverie, that when I
felt a heavy hand upon my shoulder and heard a masculine voice say
joyfully in my ear, "Dick Hatteras, or I'm a Dutchman," I started as if
I had been shot.

Brief as was the time given me for reflection, it was long enough for
that voice to conjure up a complete scene in my mind. The last time I
had heard it was on the bridge of the steamer _Yarraman_, lying in the
land-locked harbour of Cairns, on the Eastern Queensland coast; a
canoeful of darkies were jabbering alongside, and a cargo of bananas was
being shipped aboard.

I turned and held out my hand. "Jim Percival!" I cried, with as much
pleasure as astonishment. "How on earth does it come about that you are
here?"

"Arrived three days ago," the good-looking young fellow replied. "We're
lying in the River just off the West India Docks. The old man kept us at
it like galley slaves till I began to think we should never get the
cargo out. Been up to the office this morning, coming back saw you
standing here looking as if you were thinking of something ten thousand
miles away. I tell you I nearly jumped out of my skin with astonishment,
thought there couldn't be two men with the same face and build, so
smacked you on the back, discovered I was right, and here we are. Now
spin your yarn. But stay, let's first find a more convenient place than
this."

We strolled down the Strand together, and at last had the good fortune
to discover a "house of call" that met with even his critical approval.
Here I narrated as much of my doings since we had last met, as I thought
would satisfy his curiosity. My meeting with that mysterious individual
at the French restaurant and my suspicions of Baxter pa