Their manners and dress were curiously alike, but their faces differed greatly. The man who sat on the right, and who Nick had found out was Winthrop Crawford, had an open, kindly countenance. The trim gray beard did not quite hide the friendly lines about the mouth; and the eyes, although set in a network of wrinkles—such as one always notices on the faces of those who have peered long over sun-drenched stretches of plain or mountain—were wide and blue and looked out on the world in a genial fashion. His companion, however, was almost the opposite, so far as looks were concerned. There was nothing repellent about his features, to be sure, but his expression was far from agreeable. His eyes were hard and suspicious, his lips usually wore either a snarl or a sneer, and his brows were drawn together with a surly frown most of the time. It was the head steward who had told Nick the names of the two men, and had also added the information that they had been until recently joint owners of a big silver mine in South America. The second man, James Stone, was the older of the two, and it was his peculiar manner that had interested the detective first of all. During the four or five days since Carter and his assistant had boarded the _Cortez_, they had never heard Stone say more than half a dozen words at a time to any one, even to his companion, Crawford. At the table Nick noted that Crawford often tried to engage his partner in conversation, but his efforts were always doomed to failure. Moreover, the detective had observed the perplexed, anxious look which had come into Crawford’s eyes many times after these rebuffs. The two mining men were in their places when Carter and Chick dropped into their seats. Once or twice in the course of the meal the detective caught Crawford glancing across at him with a look of interest, and wondered what it meant. He was not surprised, therefore, when, after the meal was over and he had entered the smoking room, he heard a voice at his elbow, and, turning round, saw the bearded face of Winthrop Crawford at his side. “I hope you’ll excuse me, Mr. Carter,” the man said in a deep, melodious voice, “but I’ve just heard from the steward who you are, and I’d like to make your acquaintance.” As a judge of character Nick Carter had no superior, and he saw that the man in front of him was of the sterling, honest type; therefore, he had no hesitation in holding out his hand. “It’s only another case of diamond cut diamond, Mr. Crawford,” he answered, with a smile, “for I must also plead guilty to having made inquiries about you.” Crawford pulled out a cigar case, and Nick accepted the “weed,” after which they strolled across the big room and seated themselves on a comfortable settee. “I’m returning to New York after an absence of a quarter of a century,” Crawford explained, “and I don’t believe I know a single soul there.” “You are taking a well-earned vacation, I suppose?” the detective remarked.