“We shall pull ’im through,” said Mrs. Silk, smiling, as she put down the empty glass.  “In a fortnight he’ll be on ’is feet.”

It is a matter of history that Mr. Wilks was on his feet at five o’clock the next morning, and not only on his feet but dressed and ready for a journey after such a breakfast as he had not made for many a day.  The discourtesy involved in the disregard of the doctor’s instructions did not trouble him, and he smirked with some satisfaction as he noiselessly closed his door behind him and looked at the drawn blinds opposite.  The stars were paling as he quitted the alley and made his way to the railway station.  A note on his tumbled pillow, after thanking Mrs. Silk for her care of him, informed her that he was quite well and had gone to London in search of the missing captain.

Hardy, who had heard from Edward Silk of the steward’s indisposition and had been intending to pay him a visit, learnt of his departure later on in the morning, and, being ignorant of the particulars, discoursed somewhat eloquently to his partner on the old man’s devotion.

“H’m, may be,” said Swann, taking off his glasses and looking at him.  “But you don’t think Captain Nugent is in London, do you?”

“Why not?” inquired Hardy, somewhat startled.  “If what Wilks told you is true, Nathan Smith knows,” said the other.  “I’ll ask him.”

“You don’t expect to get the truth out of him, do you?” inquired Hardy, superciliously.

“I do,” said his partner, serenely; “and when I’ve got it I shall go and tell them at Equator Lodge.  It will be doing those two poor ladies a service to let them know what has really happened to the captain.”

“I’ll walk round to Nathan Smith’s with you,” said Hardy.  “I should like to hear what the fellow has to say.”

“No, I’ll go alone,” said his partner; “Smith’s a very shy man—­painfully shy.  I’ve run across him once or twice before.  He’s almost as bashful and retiring as you are.”

Hardy grunted.  “If the captain isn’t in London, where is he?” he inquired.

The other shook his head.  “I’ve got an idea,” he replied, “but I want to make sure.  Kybird and Smith are old friends, as Nugent might have known, only he was always too high and mighty to take any interest in his inferiors.  There’s something for you to go on.”

He bent over his desk again and worked steadily until one o’clock—­his hour for lunching.  Then he put on his hat and coat, and after a comfortable meal sallied out in search of Mr. Smith.

[Illustration:  “In search of Mr. Smith.”]

The boarding-house, an old and dilapidated building, was in a bystreet convenient to the harbour.  The front door stood open, and a couple of seamen lounging on the broken steps made way for him civilly as he entered and rapped on the bare boards with his stick.  Mr. Smith, clattering down the stairs in response, had some difficulty in concealing his surprise at the visit, but entered genially into a conversation about the weather, a subject in which he was much interested.  When the ship-broker began to discuss the object of his visit he led him to a small sitting-room at the back of the house and repeated the information he had given to Mr. Wilks.