nae bear the sight of it, he'll never play it
mair. O my lamb, come home to me, I'm all by my lane now." The rest was
in a religious vein, and quite conventional. I have never seen any one
more put out than Nares, when I handed him this letter. He had read but
a few words, before he cast it down; it was perhaps a minute ere he
picked it up again, and the performance was repeated the third time
before he reached the end.

"It's touching, isn't it?" said I.

For all answer, Nares exploded in a brutal oath; and it was some half an
hour later that he vouchsafed an explanation. "I'll tell you what broke
me up about that letter," said he. "My old man played the fiddle, played
it all out of tune: one of the things he played was 'Martyrdom,' I
remember--it was all martyrdom to me. He was a pig of a father, and I
was a pig of a son; but it sort of came over me I would like to hear
that fiddle squeak again. Natural," he added; "I guess we're all
beasts."

"All sons are, I guess," said I. "I have the same trouble on my
conscience: we can shake hands on that," Which (oddly enough, perhaps)
we did.

Amongst the papers we found a considerable sprinkling of photographs;
for the most part either of very debonair-looking young ladies or old
women of the lodging-house persuasion. But one among them was the means
of our crowning discovery.

"They're not pretty, are they, Mr. Dodd?" said Nares, as he passed it
over.

"Who?" I asked, mechanically taking the card (it was a quarter-plate) in
hand, and smothering a yawn; for the hour was late, the day had been
laborious, and I was wearying for bed.

"Trent and Company," said he. "That's a historic picture of the gang."

I held it to the light, my curiosity at a low ebb: I had seen Captain
Trent once, and had no delight in viewing him again. It was a photograph
of the deck of the brig, taken from forward: all in apple-pie order; the
hands gathered in the waist, the officers on the poop. At the foot of
the card was written, "Brig _Flying Scud_, Rangoon," and a date; and
above or below each individual figure the name had been carefully noted.

As I continued to gaze, a shock went through me; the dimness of sleep
and fatigue lifted from my eyes, as fog lifts in the Channel; and I
beheld with startled clearness the photographic presentment of a crowd
of strangers. "J. Trent, Master" at the top of the card directed me to a
smallish, wizened man, with bushy eyebrows and full white beard, d