he had nothing to gain by this voluntary assumption of a compromising attitude; yet here he was, he—­Mr. Brimmer—­with the appearance of being installed in her parlor, receiving her visitors, and dispensing her courtesies.  Only a man recklessly in love would be guilty of such an indiscretion—­even Markham’s feebleness had never reached this absurdity.  In the midst of his uneasiness there was a knock at the door; he opened it himself nervously and sharply.  Markham’s self-satisfied face drew back in alarm and embarrassment at the unexpected apparition.  The sight restored Brimmer’s coolness and satirical self-possession.

“I—­I—­didn’t know you were here,” stammered Markham.  “I left Keene in your room.”

“Then why didn’t you bring him along with you?” said Brimmer maliciously.  “Go and fetch him.”

“Yes; but he said you were to meet him there,” continued Markham, glancing around the empty room with a slight expression of relief.

“My watch was twenty minutes fast, and I had given him up,” said Brimmer, with mendacious effrontery.  “Miss Montgomery is dressing.  You can bring him here before she returns.”

Markham flew uneasily down the corridor and quickly returned with a handsome young fellow of five-and-twenty, whose frank face was beaming with excitement and youthful energy.  The two elder men could not help regarding him with a mingled feeling of envy and compassion.

“Did you tell Brimmer yet?” said Keene, with animation.

“I haven’t had time,” hesitated Markham.  “The fact is, Brimmer, I think of going with Keene on this expedition.”

“Indeed!” said Brimmer superciliously.

“Yes,” said Markham, coloring slightly.  “You see, we’ve got news.  Tell him, Dick.”

“The Storm Cloud got in yesterday from Valparaiso and Central American ports,” said Keene, with glowing cheeks.  “I boarded her, as usual, last night, for information.  The mate says there is a story of a man picked up crazy, in an open fishing-boat, somewhere off the peninsula, and brought into hospital at San Juan last August.  He recovered enough lately to tell his story and claim to be Captain Bunker of the Excelsior, whose crew mutinied and ran her ashore in a fog.  But the boat in which he was picked up was a Mexican fishing-boat, and there was something revolutionary and political about the story, so that the authorities detained him.  The consul has just been informed of the circumstances, and has taken the matter in hand.”

“It’s a queer story,” said Brimmer, gazing from the one to the other, “and I will look into it also to-morrow.  If it is true,” he added slowly, “I will go with you.”

Richard Keene extended his hand impulsively to his two elders.

“You’ll excuse me for saying it, Brimmer—­and you, too, Markham—­but this is just what I’ve been looking forward to.  Not but what I’d have found Nell without your assistance; but you see, boys, it did look mighty mean in me to make more fuss about a sister than you would for your wives!  But now that it’s all settled”—­