Mr. Nugent was about to speak, but, thinking better of it, turned and blundered into the kitchen. Sounds of splashing and puffing ensued, and the steward going to the door saw him with his head under the tap. He followed him in and at the right time handed him a towel. Despite the disordered appearance of his hair the improvement in Mr. Nugent’s condition was so manifest that the steward, hoping for similar results, turned the tap on again and followed his example. “Your head wants cooling, I should think,” said the young man, returning him the towel. “What’s it all about?” Mr. Wilks hesitated; a bright thought occurred to him, and murmuring something about a dry towel he sped up the narrow stairs to his bedroom. The captain was not there. He pushed open the small lattice window and peered out into the alley; no sign of either the captain or the ingenious Mr. Nathan Smith. With a heavy heart he descended the stairs again. “Now,” said Mr. Nugent, who was sitting down with his hands in his pockets, “perhaps you’ll be good enough to explain what all this means.” “You were ’ere last night,” said Mr. Wilks, “you and the cap’n.” “I know that,” said Nugent. “How is it I didn’t go home? I didn’t understand that it was an all-night invitation. Where is my father?” The steward shook his head helplessly. “He was ’ere when I went out last night,” he said, slowly. “When I came back the room was empty and I was told as ’e was upstairs in my bed.” “Told he was in your bed?” repeated the other. “Who told you?” [Illustration: “He pushed open the small lattice window and peered out into the alley.”] Mr. Wilks caught his breath. “I mean I told myself ’e was in my bed,” he stammered, “because when I came in I see these bed-clothes on the floor, an’ I thought as the cap’n ’ad put them there for me and taken my bed ’imself.” Mr. Nugent regarded the litter of bed-clothes as though hoping that they would throw a little light on the affair, and then shot a puzzled glance at Mr. Wilks. “Why should you think my father wanted your bed?” he inquired. “I don’t know,” was the reply. “I thought p’r’aps ’e’d maybe taken a little more than ’e ought to have taken. But it’s all a myst’ry to me. I’m more astonished than wot you are.” “Well, I can’t make head or tail of it,” said Nugent, rising and pacing the room. “I came here to meet my father. So far as I remember I had one drink of whisky—your whisky—and then I woke up in your bedroom with a splitting headache and a tongue like a piece of leather. Can you account for it?” Mr. Wilks shook his head again. “I wasn’t here,” he said, plucking up courage. “Why not go an’ see your father? Seems to me ’e is the one that would know most about it.”