“The French prisoner!” said I.

“That’s the man.  He told Bogue, fair and straight, he was an ex-prisoner, and off the Wellinboro’ transport, arrived that day in harbour.  He had money in his pocket—­in Bogue’s presence he pulled out a fistful of gold—­and he pitched a tale that he was bound for his home, a little this side of Saltash, but couldn’t face the road in the clothes he wore.  You’ll admit that this was reasonable when you’ve seen ’em, for I brought the suit along in the tail of the tilbury.  For a pound, Bogue fitted him up with an old suit of his own—­coat and waistcoat of blue sea-cloth, not much the worse for wear, duck trousers, a tarpaulin hat, and a flannel shirt marked J. B. (Bogue’s Christian name is Jeremiah).  The fellow had no shirt when he presented himself—­nothing between the bare buff and the uniform coat that he wore buttoned across his chest.  And here our luck comes in.  He was shy of stripping in Bogue’s presence, and, on pretence of feeling chilly, sent him out of the room for a glass of hot grog.  As it happened, Bogue met the waiting-maid in the passage, coming out of the bar with a tray and half a dozen hot grogs that had been ordered by customers in the tap-room.  He picked up one, and, sending the maid back to fetch another to fill up her order, returned at once to the private room.  My gentleman there was standing with his back to the door, stripped to the waist, with the shirt in his hand, ready to slip it on.  He wasn’t expecting Bogue so soon, and he turned about with a jump, but not before Bogue had sight of his back and a great picture tattooed across it—­Adam and Eve, with the tree between ’em, and the serpent coiled around it complete.”

“The man Bogue must have quick sight,” commented Miss Belcher.

“So I told him, but his answer was that it didn’t need more than a glance, because this picture is a favourite with seamen.  Bogue has been a seaman himself.”

“That is so,” Captain Branscome corroborated.  “The man must have been a seaman, and at one time or another in the Navy.  There’s a superstition about that particular picture:  tattooed across the back and loins it’s supposed to protect them, in a moderate degree, against flogging.”

“Well,” said Miss Belcher, “his belonging to the Navy seems likely enough.  It accounts, in one way, for his finding himself in a French war-prison.  Go on, Jack.”

“The man (said Bogue) faced about with a start, catching his hands—­ with the shirt in ’em—­towards his chest, and half covering it, but not so as to hide from Bogue that his chest, too, was marked.  Bogue hadn’t time to make out the design, but his recollection is there were several small ones—­ships, foul-anchors, and the like—­ besides a large one that seemed to be some sort of a map.”

“You haven’t done so badly, Jack,” Miss Belcher allowed.  “If the man hasn’t given us the slip at Plymouth you have struck a first-class scent.  Only I doubt ’tis a cold one.  You sent word at once?”