pocket.

Peter took it into his hands and looked long at it. It represented a
little boy with fair curls seated in a photographer's arm-chair.

'Can you tell me if it resembles any of your family?' said Purvis.

'Well, 'pon my word I don't know,' said Peter. 'The photograph is a
small one, you see, and evidently not a very good one, and to my mind
all children of that age look exactly alike. He looks a good little
chap,' he finished, with a touch of kindness in his voice. If his
brother turned out to be a good fellow reparation would be made easier;
and, heavens! how badly the man had been treated.

'The chief danger,' said Purvis, 'lies in the fact that even a strong
chain of evidence is not likely to be accepted by those who would
benefit by Edward Ogilvie's death.'

'I suppose one would play a fair game,' said Peter shortly. 'I should
like to know where you have heard of the man?'

'I may tell you that much,' said Purvis. 'I heard of him at Rosario.'

'Any reason why he should not have communicated with his friends all
these years?'

'Within the next few weeks,' said Purvis, 'I hope to be able to bring
you face to face with your brother, and then you can put what inquiries
you like to him. You must surely see that it is necessary to act with
caution until the thing is decided. Even now I can't be quite sure if
this man's claim is valid; but once the story is out a dozen claimants
may arise, and it would cost you a fortune to sift all the evidence
which they might bring.'

'Yes, I see that,' said Peter.

'I am disappointed that the photograph conveys nothing to you,' said
Purvis. 'I looked upon it as an important link in the chain of
evidence, thinking there might be another like it amongst the old
servants, perhaps, at your home.'

Peter looked at it again. 'The trouble is,' he said, 'that there are
no old servants who knew us as children. He was handing the photograph
back to Purvis when an idea struck him. 'I tell you what, though,' he
exclaimed, 'I believe the sash round the child's waist is made of
Ogilvie tartan.'

* * * * *

A bare-legged boy on a lean pony was seen approaching them in a cloud
of dust. The pony's short canter made his pace as easy as a
rocking-chair; and Lara's son, who rode him, was half asleep in the
heat. The post-bag dangled from his saddle, and the reins lay on the
pony's neck.

'Any letters?' said Peter in Spanish, and the boy hand