sporting a
fine gold chain and a diamond pin in his cravat. But--in his shirt
sleeves, and without a hat. Scarterfield leaned nearer to me.

"Our man for a million!" he muttered.

"I think so," said I.

The new-comer, evidently well known from the familiar way in which
nods and brief salutations were exchanged for him, bustled up to the
bar, called for a glass of bitter beer and helped himself to a crust
of bread and a bit of cheese from the provender at his elbow. Leaning
one elbow on the counter and munching his snack he entered into
conversation with one or two men near him; here, again, the talk as
far as we could catch it, was of seafaring matters. But we did not
catch the name of the man in the shirt-sleeves, and when, after he had
finished his refreshment, he nodded to the company and bustled out as
quickly as he had entered, Scarterfield gave me a look, and we left
the room in his wake, following him.

Our quarry bustled down the alley and turned the corner into the old
High Street. He was evidently well known there; we saw several
passers-by exchange greetings with him. Always bustling along, as if
he were a man whose time was precious, he presently crossed the
narrow roadway and turned into an office, over the window of which was
a sign--"Jallanby, Ship Broker." He had only got a foot across his
threshold, however, when Scarterfield was at his elbow.

"Excuse me, sir," he said politely. "May I have a word with you?"

The man turned, stared, evidently recognized Scarterfield as a
stranger he had just seen in the Goose and Crane, and turned from him
to me.

"Yes?" he answered questionably. "What is it?"

Scarterfield pulled out his pocket-book and produced his official
card.

"You'll see who I am from that," he remarked. "This gentleman's a
friend of mine--just now giving me some professional help. I take it
you're Mr. Jallanby?"

The ship-broker started a little as he glanced at the card and
realized Scarterfield's calling.

"Yes, I'm Mr. Jallanby," he answered. "Come inside, gentlemen." He led
the way into a dark, rather dismal and dusty little office, and signed
to a clerk who was writing there to go out. "What is it, Mr.
Scarterfield?" he asked. "Some information?"

"You've hit it sir," replied Scarterfield. "That's just what we do
want; we came here to Hull on purpose to find you, believing you can
give it. From something we heard only yesterday afternoon, Mr.
Jallanby, a long way from her