Ah, if the matter were but so far advanced as that! Then he would find a hundred answers, a hundred excuses. The only thing he would not be able to find--though this part of the subject he managed to elude cleverly--was any reasonable ground upon which to ask Marjory Hay-Heriot to marry him, or any feasible way of providing for her, should she be willing to share his fortune. With these thoughts in his mind, and those other thoughts carefully excluded from it, he wandered about the smiling isles which are enclosed in so wild a sea. He went, as he thought, to every inn over their whole extent--from the smallest to the largest--encountering endless experiences (which were not all disagreeable), and seeing a great deal of novel life. And he found nothing--no Scotch face nor Scotch accent even met his eyes or ears--or when by accident they did, they belonged to some one who denied the name of Macgregor, and was not to be identified in any way with the man he sought. He was retiring disconsolately from his last attempt to discover this undiscoverable personage, and questioning himself ruefully as to which was the nearest way to New Zealand, when some one came up to him on the pier where he waited for the steamer--a ruddy, red-haired young man or boy, not more than twenty, freckled up to the roots of his hair, and with a shrewd but innocent face. He was one of the porters on the pier, and Fanshawe instinctively stole his portmanteau out of the way, to keep it from the clutches of this predatory personage. He was very much astonished to see the individual in question pushing towards him, evidently with a purpose; and still more startled when the youth addressed him. “You were asking, Sir, for ane of the name of Macgregor?” he said, interrogatively. Fanshawe turned sharply round upon him. “I was doing so,” he said; “what of that? Have you anything to tell me about him?” “I’m him,” said the young man, “that’s a’.” “You are he!” said Fanshawe, in dismay, gazing at the youthful countenance with a kind of horror. The lad put his hand to his hat with a comfortable smile, which told how far he was from any consciousness of offence. “Ay, deed am I. I’m from Perthshire as my native place, and I’ve been here a year. Whatever you want wi’ me it can be nae harm, for I’ve a conscience vide of offence; and folk tell me you’ve been looking for me, Sir, all through the island. There’s no question ye can put that I winna answer. I’m feared for nothing. I have a conscience vide of offence.” Fanshawe was amused in spite of himself. “You might perhaps suit my purpose better if you were not quite so blameless,” he said. “It cannot be anything so young as you that I want. Is your name John?” “No,” said the lad, “my name’s Willie; but wait a bit, Sir, we’ll maybe shuit you yet, a’ the same. John’s no my name, but it’s my father’s; and he’s no so young nor so innocent as me. It might be him ye wanted?” “Does he live here?”