heart slides down into his boots. Captain Harry only laughs at the
notion of staying ashore. He wants no holiday, not he. But Jane
thinks of remaining in England this trip. Go about a bit and see
some of her people. Jane was the Captain's wife; round-faced,
pleasant lady. George gives up that time; but Cloete won't let him
rest. So he tries again; and the Captain frowns. He frowns
because he's puzzled. He can't make it out. He has no notion of
living away from his Sagamore. . .

"Ah!" I cried. "Now I understand."

"No, you don't," he growled, his black, contemptuous stare turning
on me crushingly.

"I beg your pardon," I murmured.

"H'm! Very well, then. Captain Harry looks very stern, and George
crumples all up inside. . . He sees through me, he thinks. . . Of
course it could not be; but George, by that time, was scared at his
own shadow. He is shirking it with Cloete, too. Gives his partner
to understand that his brother has half a mind to try a spell on
shore, and so on. Cloete waits, gnawing his fingers; so anxious.
Cloete really had found a man for the job. Believe it or not, he
had found him inside the very boarding-house he lodged in--
somewhere about Tottenham Court Road. He had noticed down-stairs a
fellow--a boarder and not a boarder--hanging about the dark--part
of the passage mostly; sort of 'man of the house,' a slinking chap.
Black eyes. White face. The woman of the house--a widow lady, she
called herself--very full of Mr. Stafford; Mr. Stafford this and
Mr. Stafford that. . . Anyhow, Cloete one evening takes him out to