To him Lucius freely confided all he knew about Ferdinand Sivewright—his character, antecedents, the ship in which he sailed, the port from which he went, the approximate date of his departure. Mr. Otranto shrugged his shoulders. He had whistled a little impromptu accompaniment to Mr. Davoren’s statement under his breath; a kind of internal whistling, indicative of deepest thought. ‘I’m afraid it’s not the most hopeful case,’ he said; ‘twelve years is a long time. See what a number of earthquakes and shipwrecks and revolutions and what you may call general blow-ups you get in a dozen years; and then consider the case of one individual man who may drop through at any moment, who, being by nature a bad lot, will change his name any number of times. However, I can put the business into the hands of a party out yonder who will do all that can be done on the spot.’ ‘Yonder, meaning Rio?’ inquired Lucius. ‘Have you correspondents so far afield?’ ‘Sir,’ said Mr. Otranto, with a complacent glance at the map of the world which hung against the wall opposite him, ‘there are very few corners of this habitable earth where I have _not_ a correspondent.’ The business was settled without farther discussion. Lucius gave Mr. Otranto a substantial deposit, to prove that his inquiry was not prompted by frivolity, and to insure that gentleman’s zeal; private inquiry being, as Mr. Otranto indirectly informed his client, a somewhat expensive luxury. This done, Lucius felt that he had not been false to his pledge. He told Lucille nothing, however, except that he meant to keep his promise, so far as it was possible and reasonable for him to keep it. ‘If I tell you that I think you foolish for cherishing a wild hope, dearest, you will tell me that I am unkind,’ he said, as they paced their favourite walk in the barren old garden at sunset that evening. ‘Lucius,’ asked Lucille, not long after this, ‘I am going to ask you a favour.’ ‘My dearest, what do I live for except to please you?’ ‘O, Lucius, a great many things; for your patients, for science, for the hope of being a famous doctor by and by.’ ‘Only secondary objects in my life now, Lucille. They once made the sum of life, I grant; they are henceforth no more than means to an end—and that end is the creation of a home for you.’ ‘How good of you to say that! I am hardly worthy of such love, when my heart dwells so much upon the past. Yet, Lucius, if you could only know how I cling to the memory of that dim strange time, which seems almost as far away as a dream, you would forgive me even for putting that memory above my affection for you.’ ‘I forgive you freely, darling, for a sentiment which does but prove the tenderness and constancy of your nature. I am content even to hold the second place. But what is the favour you have to ask, Lucille?’