“My God,” exclaimed the old officer, “what have I been doing? Oh, what a miserable old man I am, Alice. Was it not enough for me that I turned a daughter out to die in the street? And now I have left Frank, my dear, dear boy, to struggle for a living, to sail thousands of miles away to work for his wife and children with his own hands? Oh, Alice, why did I ever believe it? What shall I do? You are happier than I am, Alice, for you never believed him quite guilty. You always said it was impossible; while I never doubted it for a moment. My poor boy, my brave, noble Frank!” and he sat down again in his chair, and cried unrestrainedly, “how you must have suffered. Why did you not write—why did you not demand, as you had a right, why you were thrown off? But there, after that letter of mine, who can blame you? As for him,” and the old man leaped up again in one of his furies of rage, “as for him—” and he walked up and down the room. “But there,” he said, presently, “we can talk of him afterwards. The great question is Frank. Is it too late to stop him, Alice?” “He sailed yesterday, uncle,” Alice said sadly. “Yes, yes, Alice. So James said; but many of those emigrant vessels touch at Plymouth. We may stop him yet. We will start there in the morning. What is the ship’s name, Alice?” Alice did not know. “Never mind, I will go down to the station,” and he rang the bell violently. “James, go out and get a carriage. If the places are shut up, wake them up, say I will pay anything—I must have a carriage down to the station. I will telegraph to Prescott to meet me at Plymouth to-morrow, my dear. Yes, it is late; but I will find out where the telegraph clerk lives. He will be glad enough to get up and send a message to London for a ten pound note.” Very much astonished was Arthur Prescott at being awakened at two o’clock in the morning by a loud and continued knocking at his door, and still more, when he opened it, on seeing a railway porter standing there. “Beg pardon, sir,” the man said, touching his hat, “message just come up from Torquay; past usual hours. Clerk thought it might be special; offered to bring it down.” “Thank you,” Prescott said. “Wait till I strike a light. Here is half-a-crown for yourself. Good night,” and Prescott returned to the table to read the telegram. It was quite characteristic of the man who had sent it. “Infernal mistake about Frank. Damned old fool. Must stop him. Does his ship put in at Plymouth? I start there at once. Telegraph to me at Royal Hotel name of ship. Come there yourself by first train in the morning. Walker is an incoherent ass, not so great an ass as I am. Who’d have thought it? Fred Bingham a knave and a scoundrel. You will understand.”