m,--over twenty thousand dollars."

Mr. Bowdoin started. "The child told you this?"

"No, the mother. I saw her before she died."

"Oh," said his grandfather. "You did not tell me that."

"I saw her before she died," said Harley firmly. "You must not think
hardly of her; she was very changed." The tears were in Commander
Harleston's eyes.

"I will not," said Mr. Bowdoin. "Over twenty thousand dollars,--dear
me, dear me! And we have our directors' meeting to-day. Well, well. I
am glad, at least, poor Jamie has his little girl again," and Mr.
Bowdoin took his hat and prepared to go. "I only hope I'm too late.
James, go on ahead. Harley, my boy, I'm afraid we know it all."

"Stop a minute," said Harley. "There was some one else at the
hospital."

"Everybody seems to have been at the hospital," growled old Mr.
Bowdoin petulantly. But he sat down wearily, wondering what he should
do; for he felt almost sure now of what poor Jamie had done.

"The captain of the blockade-runner was there, too. He was mortally
wounded; and it was from him that I learned most about St. Clair and
how he ended. He seemed to be a Spaniard by birth, though he wore as a
brooch a small miniature of Andrew Jackson."

"Hang Andrew Jackson!" cried the old gentleman. "What do I care about
Andrew Jackson?"

"That's what I asked him. And do you know what he said? 'Why, he saved
me from hanging.'"

Mr. Bowdoin started.

"Before he died he told me of his life. He had even been on a pirate,
in old days. Once he was captured, and tried in Boston; and, for some
kindness he had shown, old President Jackson reprieved him. Then he
ran away, and never dared come back. But he left some money at a bank
here, and a little girl, his daughter."

"What was his name? Hang it, what was his name?" shouted old Mr.
Bowdoin, putting on his hat.

"Soto,--Romolo Soto."

Mr. Bowdoin sank back in his chair again. "Why, that was the captain.
Mercedes was the mate's child."

"No. The money was Soto's, and the child too. He told me he had only
lately sent a detective here to try and trace the child."

"The sheriff's officer, by Jove!" said Mr. Bowdoin. "But can you prove
it? can you prove it?" he cried.

"Mercedes had yellow hair, so had Soto. And he knew your name. And
before he died he gave me papers."

Mr. Bowdoin jumped up, took the papers, and bolted into the street.

XIV.

His son James was sitting in the chair, with the other directors
aroun