"Raymond, do you look out for him;" and Mr. Trace pressed his son's arm, to give emphasis to the charge. "A middle-sized man, of two-and-thirty, or thereabouts, with a pale face, and a reddish shade on his brown hair. He was looking shabby when I last saw him, perhaps is more so now. If he _is_ saved, the first thing he'd do would be to come here and watch for me by stealth. Keep your eyes open, and warn me." "But, sir, do you really owe him money?" "No; I do not," was the positive answer. "I don't legally owe him a farthing. Nevertheless, I should"—Mr. Trace paused—"I should have some difficulty in proving that here. Were he to press his false claim upon me to the extent of arrest, which is just what he'd like to do, I might languish in prison longer than I care to think of." "I will look out," murmured Trace. "I think I should know him. I wish we were not so busy with the Orville. But in a couple of days that will be over." "Shall you get that prize?" "If Paradyne is put out of it. You heard me say so, father?" "Yes, yes," was Mr. Trace's laconic answer, as if the very mention of the name were offensive to him. A silence ensued. Raymond's spirits were down at zero; his father's were not much higher. As they passed the spot where Mr. Henry came out to meet the stranger, the fact was naturally recalled to Trace's mind: he had not yet succeeded in fathoming the mystery. All in a moment a question darted through him—could that man have been Hopper? That man was shabby, that man was pale; that man had a reddish cast in his hair, and looked about two or three and thirty; and Trace had heard him speak of a voyage. A conviction that it was Hopper, and no other, took instant possession of him. With his brain heating at the discovery, his heart shrinking with an apprehensive fear, Trace halted in his walk, and rapidly told the news. "When was this, do you say?" questioned Mr. Trace in a covert whisper, as if afraid the very trees might hear. "It was last Friday. Five days ago." "Had the saved passengers been landed then?" "Oh dear yes, and had come from Cork to England. Young Batty had." "Then, Raymond, it was Hopper," said Mr. Trace, who was looking at matters through his own suspicious glasses; and his face seemed to turn of a grey hue. "Rely upon it, he was trying to ferret out whether I was in the neighbourhood. Who is this Mr. Henry?" "Our German and French master. He's an awful rat. Just the fellow for a sneak to apply to for any dirty information." "You must try and get the truth out of him—whether it was Hopper or not, and if so, where he is now. I'll wait for you here." "What—now?" exclaimed Trace. "I—I don't suppose he'll tell me. I am not friendly with him." "Make yourself friendly for the nonce, and worm it out of him," said Mr. Trace imperatively. "Raymond, _I must be at some certainty_. This is almost a matter of life or death."