he came to the entry which he sought.  Then, with an angry gesture of his clenched hand, he closed the book, replaced it in the corner, and put out the light.  He had hardly turned to leave the hut when Hopkin’s hand was on the fellow’s collar, and I heard his loud gasp of terror as he understood that he was taken.  The candle was relit, and there was our wretched captive, shivering and cowering in the grasp of the detective.  He sank down upon the sea-chest, and looked helplessly from one of us to the other.

“Now, my fine fellow,” said Stanley Hopkins, “who are you, and what do you want here?”

The man pulled himself together, and faced us with an effort at self-composure.

“You are detectives, I suppose?” said he.  “You imagine I am connected with the death of Captain Peter Carey.  I assure you that I am innocent.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Hopkins.  “First of all, what is your name?”

“It is John Hopley Neligan.”

I saw Holmes and Hopkins exchange a quick glance.

“What are you doing here?”

“Can I speak confidentially?”

“No, certainly not.”

“Why should I tell you?”

“If you have no answer, it may go badly with you at the trial.”

The young man winced.

“Well, I will tell you,” he said.  “Why should I not?  And yet I hate to think of this old scandal gaining a new lease of life.  Did you ever hear of Dawson and Neligan?”

I could see, from Hopkins’s face, that he never had, but Holmes was keenly interested.

“You mean the West Country bankers,” said he.  “They failed for a million, ruined half the county families of Cornwall, and Neligan disappeared.”

“Exactly.  Neligan was my father.”

At last we were getting something positive, and yet it seemed a long gap between an absconding banker and Captain Peter Carey pinned against the wall with one of his own harpoons.  We all listened intently to the young man’s words.

“It was my father who was really concerned.  Dawson had retired.  I was only ten years of age at the time, but I was old enough to feel the shame and horror of it all.  It has always been said that my father stole all the securities and fled.  It is not true.  It was his belief that if he were given time in which to realize them, all would be well and every creditor paid in full.  He started in his little yacht for Norway just before the warrant was issued for his arrest.  I can remember that last night when he bade farewell to my mother.  He left us a list of the securities he was taking, and he swore that he would come back with his honour cleared, and that none who had trusted him would suffer.  Well, no word was ever heard from him again.  Both the yacht and he vanished utterly.  We believed, my mother and I, that he and it, with the securities that he had taken with him, were at the bottom of the sea.  We had a faithful friend, however, who is a business man, and it was he who discovered some time ago that some of the securities which my father had with him had reappeared on the London market.  You can imagine our amazement.  I spent months in trying to trace them, and at last, after many doubtings and difficulties, I discovered that the original seller had been Captain Peter Carey, the owner of this hut.