was twelve o'clock, but she would come again later.

He was bewildered. He had slept the round of the clock--that was natural
after his fatigue--but where was his benefactor? The lateness of the
time forbade the conclusion that he had merely slept elsewhere; he
would assuredly have returned by this time to claim his portmanteau. The
portmanteau! He unstrapped it and examined the contents again. They were
undisturbed as he had left them the night before. There was a further
change of linen, the buckskin bag, which he could see now contained
a couple of Bank of England notes, with some foreign gold mixed with
American half-eagles, and a cheap, rough memorandum book clasped with
elastic, containing a letter in a boyish hand addressed "Dear Daddy"
and signed "Bobby," and a photograph of a boy taken by a foreign
photographer at Callao, as the printed back denoted, but nothing giving
any clue whatever to the name of the owner.

A strange idea seized him: did the portmanteau really belong to the man
who had given it to him? Had he been the innocent receiver of stolen
goods from some one who wished to escape detection? He recalled now that
he had heard stories of robbery of luggage by thieves "Sydney ducks"--on
the deserted wharves, and remembered, too,--he could not tell why the
thought had escaped him before,--that the man had spoken with an English
accent. But the next moment he recalled his frank and open manner, and
his mind cleared of all unworthy suspicion. It was more than likely that
his benefactor had taken this delicate way of making a free, permanent
gift for that temporary service. Yet he smiled faintly at the return of
that youthful optimism which had caused him so much suffering.

Nevertheless, something must be done: he must try to find the man; still
more important, he must seek work before this dubious loan was further