Well, it was a plausible story, and I had no doubt, so far as the Honorable Cuthbert was concerned, an absolutely truthful one.  The beautiful youth was manifestly as guileless as a small boy playing pirate with a wooden sword.  But as to Mr. Shaw, who could tell that it hadn’t after all been a trumped-up affair between Miss Browne and him—­that his surprise at the message was not assumed to throw dust in the eyes of his young and trusting friend?  Are even the most valiant adventurers invariably honest?  Left behind by his companions because of his injury, his chance of an enduring fame cut off, with no prospects but those of an officer on an ocean liner, might he not lend a ready ear to a scheme for plucking a fat and willing pigeon?  So great was my faith in Aunt Jane’s gullibility, so dark my distrust of Miss Browne, that all connected with the enterprise lay under the cloud of my suspicion.  The Honorable Mr. Vane I had already so far exculpated as to wonder if he were not in some way being victimized too; but Mr. Shaw, after even a casual glimpse of him, one couldn’t picture as a victim.  I felt that he must have gone into the enterprise with his eyes open to its absurdity, and fully aware that the only gold to be won by anybody must come out of the pocket of Aunt Jane.

As these reflections passed through my mind I looked up and saw the subject of them approaching.  He lifted his helmet, but met my eyes unsmilingly, with a sort of sober scrutiny.  He had the tanned skin of a sailor, and brown hair cropped close and showing a trace of gray.  This and a certain dour grim look he had made me at first consider him quite middle-aged, though I knew later that he was not yet thirty-five.  As to the grimness, perhaps, I unwillingly conceded, part of it was due to the scar which seamed the right temple to the eyebrow, in a straight livid line.  But it was a grim face anyway, strong-jawed, with piercing steel-blue eyes.

He was welcomed by Mr. Vane with a joyous thump on the shoulder-blade.  “I say, old man, Miss Harding has turned out to be the most fearful doubting Thomas—­thinks the whole scheme quite mad and all that sort of thing.  I’m far too great a duffer to convert her, but perhaps you might, don’t you know?”

Mr. Shaw looked at me steadily.  His eyes were the kind that seem to see all and reveal nothing.  I felt a hot spark of defiance rising in my own.

“And indeed it is too bad,” he said coolly, “that the trip should not be more to Miss Harding’s liking.”  The rough edges of his Scotch burr had been smoothed down by much wandering, but you knew at once on which side of the Solway he had seen the light.

“It is not a question of my liking,” I retorted, trying to preserve an unmoved and lofty demeanor, though my heart was beating rather quickly at finding myself actually crossing swords with the redoubtable adventurer, this man who had often faced death, I could not refuse to believe, as steadily as he was facing me now.