But they, poor little dears, did not know what Captain Melun did—their dreams of endless millions were unspoiled by any knowledge of the little paper which Westerham carried in his breast-pocket. On the third day, however, there came a complete right-about-face in the conduct of the two men whose personalities had most impressed themselves on the ship's company, for while Melun came on deck looking sullen and morose, the baronet pleaded a slight attack of fever and hid himself in his state-room. Nor indeed, until with all that serenity on the bridge and all that shouting on the quay which goes to the berthing of a great liner, did any of the maidens, clamorous for his presence, look upon Westerham's face again. The gangway lashed securely to the _Gigantic's_ side, the first to step aboard were the reporters, anxious and eager-eyed, keen on finding the miner who was now a baronet and a millionaire. They proposed to wire his life-story up to London for the benefit of readers beyond number. Hard upon the reporters came the fussy relatives and friends of passengers, and amid the general kissings and hand-shakings on deck no one had much thought for any particular individual beyond himself. So, without arousing any comment, there stepped from the main entrance to the saloon a tall, spare, clean-shaven man dressed in clerical garb. Even the fact that his face was exceedingly ruddy and that his eyes were of a peculiar sea-green shade aroused no comment. Carrying a little bag in his hand, the apparently athletic curate swept his way to the head of the gangway, where his fresh and smiling face invited confidence from the reporters who hovered there, nervous lest the baronet should escape them. One of them lifted his hat, and stepping forward, asked the tall, youthful parson if he had seen Sir Paul Westerham. The parson smiled and said gravely: “Yes, I saw him two minutes ago in his state-room.” There was a stampede on the part of the journalists, and, smiling blandly to himself, Westerham settled his clerical hat firmly on his head and sped down the gangway. In the days he had spent below decks Westerham had mapped out for himself a sufficiently daring and ingenious plan of campaign to satisfy the most exacting of romantic minds. It was, indeed, with almost boyish zest that he entered on the adventure, and with all the enthusiasm of an amateur detective had paved the way for slipping up to London, there to become a lost nonentity. He knew better than to take the boat-train. Instead, he went up to the Adelphi Hotel, where fewer of his fellow-passengers were likely to congregate than at the North-Western, deposited his bag, and thereafter sauntered out to enjoy a stroll through the crowded streets of Liverpool. At the Adelphi he slept that night, proceeding up to London on the following day. He arrived at Euston about one o'clock, and drove straight to Walter's, a small yet comfortable hotel on the north side of the Strand.