ensemble there was no likeness.

"The young fellow went from college to Africa," said Curran, "where he
explored the wilderness for two years. This photograph was taken on his
return from an expedition. His father and mother, his relatives and
friends, saw that picture without recognizing him. When told who it was,
they were wholly astonished, and after a second study still failed to
recognize their friend. What are you going to do in a case of that kind?
You or Grahame or Ledwith might be Tom Jones, and how could I pierce
such perfect and natural disguises."

"Let me see," said Arthur, as he stood with Endicott's photograph in his
hand and studied the detective, "if I can see this young man in you."

Having compared the features of the portrait and of the detective, he
had to admit the absence of a likeness. Handing the photograph to the
Captain he said,

"You do the same for me."

"There is more likelihood in your case," said Curran, "for your age is
nearer that of Tom Jones, and youth has resemblances of color and
feature."

He studied the photograph and compared it with the grave face before
him.

"I have done this before," said Curran, "with the same result. You are
ten years older than Tom Jones, and you are as clearly Arthur Dillon as
he was Tom Jones."

The young man and the Captain sighed together.

"Oh, I brought in others, clever and experienced," said Curran, "to try
what a fresh mind could do to help me, but in vain."

"There must have been something hard about Tom Jones," said Arthur,
"when he was able to stay away and make no sign after his child was
born."

The Captain burst into a mocking laugh, which escaped him before he
could repress the inclination.

"He may never have heard of it, and if he did his wife's reputation----"

"I see," said Arthur Dillon smiling, convinced that Captain Curran knew
more of Sonia Westfield than he cared to tell. At the detective's
request the matter was dropped as one that did him harm; but he
complimented Arthur on the shrewdness of his suggestions, which indeed
had given him new views without changing his former opinions.

CHAPTER XV.

THE INVASION OF IRELAND.

One lovely morning the good ship sailed into the harbor of Foreskillen,
an obscure fishing port on the lonely coast of Donegal. The _Arrow_ had
been in sight of land all the day before. A hush had fallen on the
spirits of the adventurers. The two innocents, Honora and her father,
had