Daniel Mayfield came back to the inn. “Is no one going to help me?” he cried. “Are you going to let my sister’s son perish, and not stir a foot to save him?” The landlord caught Daniel’s strong arm in his own muscular grip. “You joost keep y’rsel quiet,” he said. “It’s no guid to fash y’rsel. Whatever mon can dee, I’ll dee. It is’na runnin’ wild in the street as’ll save y’r nevy. I ken the place, and I ken what to be doin’. Leave it to me.” “Yes,” said Mr. Jerningham, huskily; “you can do nothing. Let the good man manage things his own way. And mind, my friend, I will guarantee fifty pounds to the man who saves Eustace Thorburn. I want to speak to you, Mr. Mayfield. Come in here.” He opened the door of a little sitting-room, and would have led Daniel in; but Daniel shook off his grasp roughly. “Do you think I can talk of anything while _his_ life is in peril?” he cried. “Yes, you can--you must talk of _him_. I tell you that your help is not wanted. You can do nothing. The men, who know the coast, will do their utmost. Come! I must and will be answered.” He half led, half dragged, Daniel Mayfield into the little room. The journalist was much the stronger man of the two, but at this moment he was helpless as a child. “Your name is Mayfield? You do not know what feelings _that_ name awakens in my mind, heard in this place, and after my meeting that young man where I did meet him this morning. For God’s sake tell me if you are in any way related to a Mr. Mayfield who----” “My father kept a circulating library at Bayham,” answered Daniel, with angry abruptness. “I am a journalist, and get my bread by scribbling for newspapers and reviews.” “And that young man--Eustace Thorburn--is your sister’s son? You must have had more than one sister?” “No, I had but one.” “And she is dead?” “She is.” “And this young man--Eustace Thorburn--is the son of your sister, Mrs. Thorburn?” “He is the son of my only sister, Celia Mayfield.” “His father--Mr. Thorburn--is dead, I suppose?” “I can answer no questions about his father,” answered Daniel, sternly; “nor do I care to be catechized in this manner at such a time.” “Pardon me. Your name has painful associations for me, and I thought it possible you might be related to----One question more, and I have done. In what year was your nephew born?” “He was born on the 14th November, 1844.” “Then he is not twenty-four years of age. You are quite sure of the date?” “I am; and if you care to verify it, you may find the registry of his baptism in St. Ann’s Church, Soho.” “Thanks. That is all I have to ask. Forgive me if I seem impertinent. And now let us go to the jetty together; and God grant this young man may come back to us in safety.”