It was late that night when Copplestone and Gilling arrived at this far-off Cornish seaport, and nothing could be done until the following morning. To Copplestone it seemed as if they were in for a difficult task. Over twelve months had elapsed since the real Marston Greyle left America for England; he might not have stayed in Falmouth, might not have held any conversation with anybody there who would recollect him! how were they going to trace him? But Gilling--now free of his clerical attire and presenting himself as a smart young man of the professional classes type--was quick to explain that system, accurate and definite system, would expedite matters. "We know the approximate date on which the _Araconda_ would touch here," he said as they breakfasted together. "As things go, it would be from October 4th to 6th, according to the quickness of her run across the Atlantic. Very well--if Marston Greyle stayed here, he'd have to stay at some hotel. Accordingly, we visit all the Falmouth hotels and examine their registers of that date--first week of October, 1912. If we find his name--good! We can then go on to make inquiries. If we don't find any trace of him, then we know it's all up--he probably went straight away by train after landing. We'll begin with this hotel first." There was no record of any Marston Greyle at that hotel, nor at the next half-dozen at which they called. A visit to the shipping office of the line to which the _Araconda_ belonged revealed the fact that she reached Falmouth on October 5th at half-past ten in the evening, and that the name of Marston Greyle was on the list of first-class passengers. Gilling left the office in cheery mood. "That simplifies matters," he said. "As the _Araconda_ reached here late in the evening, the passengers who landed from her would be almost certain to stay the night in Falmouth. So we've only to resume our round of these hotels in order to hit something pertinent. This is plain and easy work, Copplestone--no corners in it. We'll strike oil before noon." They struck oil at the very next hotel they called at--an old-fashioned house in close proximity to the harbour. There was a communicative landlord there who evidently possessed and was proud of a retentive memory, and he no sooner heard the reason of Gilling's call upon him than he bustled into activity, and produced the register of the previous year. "But I remember the young gentleman you're asking about," he remarked, as he took the book from a safe and laid it open on the table in his private room. "Not a common name, is it? He came here about eleven o'clock of the night you've mentioned--there you are!--there's the entry. And there--higher up--is the name of the man who came to meet him. He came the day before--to be here when the _Araconda_ got in."