untain, of 45 Rathray Street, West--that's
down near the wharves--says he has seen your ad. in an old number of a
paper, and he thinks he can tell you something. He did not specify the
nature of the intelligence, but it might be worth finding out.

"I will go there," said Lestrange.

"Do you know Rathray Street?"

"No."

Wannamaker went out and called a boy and gave him some directions; then
Lestrange and the boy started.

Lestrange left the office without saying "Thank you," or taking leave
in any way of the advertising agent who did not feel in the least
affronted, for he knew his customer.

Rathray Street is, or was before the earthquake, a street of small
clean houses. It had a seafaring look that was accentuated by the
marine perfumes from the wharves close by and the sound of steam
winches loading or discharging cargo--a sound that ceased not a night
or day as the work went on beneath the sun or the sizzling arc lamps.

No. 45 was almost exactly like its fellows, neither better nor worse;
and the door was opened by a neat, prim woman, small, and of middle
age. Commonplace she was, no doubt, but not commonplace to Lestrange.

"Is Mr Fountain in?" he asked. "I have come about the advertisement."

"Oh, have you, sir?" she replied, making way for him to enter, and
showing him into a little sitting-room on the left of the passage.
"The Captain is in bed; he is a great invalid, but he was expecting,
perhaps, someone would call, and he will be able to see you in a
minute, if you don't mind waiting."

"Thanks," said Lestrange; "I can wait."

He had waited eight years, what mattered a few minutes now? But at no
time in the eight years had he suffered such suspense, for his heart
knew that now, just now in this commonplace little house, from the lips
of, perhaps, the husband of that commonplace woman, he was going to
learn either what he feared to hear, or what he hoped.

It was a depressing little room; it was so clean, and looked as though
it were never used. A ship imprisoned in a glass bottle stood upon the
mantelpiece, and there were shells from far-away places, pictures of
ships in sand--all the things one finds as a rule adorning an old
sailor's home.

Lestrange, as he sat waiting, could hear movements from the next
room--probably the invalid's, which they were preparing for his
reception. The distant sounds of the derricks and winches came muted
through the tightly shut window that looked as though