“What figure, if you please?” the lawyer asked.

“I want it bought,” replied Carthew.  “I don’t mind about the price.”

“Any price is no price,” said Bellairs.  “Put a name upon it.”

“Call it ten thousand pounds then, if you like!” said Carthew.

In the meanwhile, the captain had to walk the streets, appear in the consulate, be cross-examined by Lloyd’s agent, be badgered about his lost accounts, sign papers with his left hand, and repeat his lies to every skipper in San Francisco:  not knowing at what moment he might run into the arms of some old friend who should hail him by the name of Wicks, or some new enemy who should be in a position to deny him that of Trent.  And the latter incident did actually befall him, but was transformed by his stout countenance into an element of strength.  It was in the consulate (of all untoward places) that he suddenly heard a big voice inquiring for Captain Trent.  He turned with the customary sinking at his heart.

“YOU ain’t Captain Trent!” said the stranger, falling back.  “Why, what’s all this?  They tell me you’re passing off as Captain Trent—­Captain Jacob Trent—­a man I knew since I was that high.”

“O, you’re thinking of my uncle as had the bank in Cardiff,” replied Wicks, with desperate aplomb.

“I declare I never knew he had a nevvy!” said the stranger.

“Well, you see he has!” says Wicks.

“And how is the old man?” asked the other.

“Fit as a fiddle,” answered Wicks, and was opportunely summoned by the clerk.

This alert was the only one until the morning of the sale, when he was once more alarmed by his interview with Jim; and it was with some anxiety that he attended the sale, knowing only that Carthew was to be represented, but neither who was to represent him nor what were the instructions given.  I suppose Captain Wicks is a good life.  In spite of his personal appearance and his own known uneasiness, I suppose he is secure from apoplexy, or it must have struck him there and then, as he looked on at the stages of that insane sale and saw the old brig and her not very valuable cargo knocked down at last to a total stranger for ten thousand pounds.

It had been agreed that he was to avoid Carthew, and above all Carthew’s lodging, so that no connexion might be traced between the crew and the pseudonymous purchaser.  But the hour for caution was gone by, and he caught a tram and made all speed to Mission Street.

Carthew met him in the door.

“Come away, come away from here,” said Carthew; and when they were clear of the house, “All’s up!” he added.

“O, you’ve heard of the sale, then?” said Wicks.

“The sale!” cried Carthew.  “I declare I had forgotten it.”  And he told of the voice in the telephone, and the maddening question:  “Why did you want to buy the Flying Scud?”