The welcome raised Harland’s spirits, and drove away sundry fears and qualms that had been lurking in his heart. Surely the grim Fates were on his side at last. His luck had turned, and the wheels of life, greased by prosperity, would revolve smoothly for the future. He answered his friend’s greeting with a light laugh, and a _debonnair_ air, that made him appear more charming than ever. Mr Vansittart went to business at once, and in a few minutes a first-class passenger ticket for the _Pandora_ was made out, signed, paid for, and safely deposited in Mr Harland’s pocket-book. He had played and won. London and its dark associations seemed to be already fading from his view, and New Zealand and a free life, unburdened by cares or encumbrances, was spreading out before him. ‘And now, my boy! Can I set you down anywhere?’ asked Mr Vansittart. ‘I am bound to call at my bankers, but I will drive you to your destination first if you desire it.’ Harland would greatly have liked to show himself by the side of the millionaire in his splendid equipage, but he knew it would be safer not to do so, and so he declined the offer. He had his private reasons for wishing to keep quiet until he was safely out of England. If some of his friends got wind of his being hand and glove with a wealthy man, it might be all up with his dream of enfranchisement. So he professed to have business in another direction. ‘Thanks, Mr Vansittart, but I am running down to Portsmouth to-day about that little yacht of mine, and have promised to wait here for a friend. Don’t let me detain you. When would you wish to see me again?’ ‘When will you be back in town?’ ‘To-morrow, at latest.’ ‘Come up and dine with us then, at seven, and we will discuss the arrangements for the voyage--we have not too much time. In ten days more we shall be upon the sea.’ ‘Thank God!’ ejaculated Harland, as the carriage drove away. He waited about for a minute or two, to make sure Mr Vansittart would not return, and then prepared to slink off in an opposite direction. But as he passed through the swinging door of the office into the street, he came face to face with a man, who recognised him without ceremony. ‘Hallo! Cain,’ he exclaimed loudly. ‘Who the d--l would have expected to see you here? I thought you were in America.’ The speaker was a fine stalwart young fellow, but evidently of a much lower standing than Godfrey Harland. The latter was taken completely by surprise, but had the presence of mind to draw himself up stiffly, and say,-- ‘I beg your pardon, sir. I have not the pleasure of knowing you,’ and with that he essayed to pass out. But the new-comer was not to be put off so easily. ‘_Not know me!_’ he repeated. ‘Where are your eyes. I should have known you five miles off. My name is William Farrell. Have you forgotten old Starling, and the row there was in the office when you left?’