On reaching the _Arbaces_ Lisle at once made his way to the stateroom which had been allotted him. He knew already that he would have to share it with a fellow-passenger, and when, on entering it, he found there a dressing-case and a small portmanteau, a natural curiosity to ascertain the name of the person who, for the next week or more would be his nightly, if not his daily companion, led him to turn up one of the labels and read what was written thereon. Rarely, perhaps never, in his life had Everard Lisle been more amazed than he was when his eyes took in these words: “John Alexander, Esq. Passenger to New York.” By one of those singular coincidences, which are far more common than the generality of people imagine them to be, he and the man of whom he was in pursuit, and on whom he had not expected to set eyes till after a journey of close upon four thousand miles, had crossed each other’s path at the outset. Yet, but for the chance of his having read the address label when he did, they would probably have been shipmates for some time before discovering the relation in which each stood to the other, and, in any case, as the _Arbaces_ did not call at Queenstown, they would have been compelled in their own despite to make the voyage out and home again. Lisle had not recovered from his astonishment when the cabin door was opened from without and he saw before him a tall, finely-built man of middle age, with high aquiline features, dark, grave, earnest-looking eyes, a somewhat worn and thoughtful-looking face, and a long flowing beard already flecked with white. “My cabin chum, I presume,” said the stranger in a deep mellow voice, and with an exceedingly pleasant smile. “I hope we shall have a good passage, and that at the end of it our companionship will remain a pleasant recollection in connection with it.” Everard smiled and bowed. “I have taken the liberty of reading the name on your luggage,” he said. “Pray excuse the question. I have a special reason for asking it, but are you Mr. John Alexander of Pineapple City in the State of Michigan?” The other lifted his eyebrows in surprise. “That is certainly my address, and therefore I can only assume that I am the person to whom you refer.” “Then you must be the person whom I was going all the way to Pineapple City in search of. I am especially glad that I have met you now and here—for one thing, because my having done so will save me the necessity of a voyage to the States and back. Mr. Alexander, I am the bearer of a letter addressed to you from Sir Gilbert Clare of Withington Chase.” For a moment or two it seemed to Mr. Alexander as if the cabin floor were rising and sinking, as it might have done in a heavy gale. He seated himself on the edge of his berth; his face had faded to an ashen grey. “A letter from my—from Sir Gilbert Clare for me!” he said, speaking like a man in a dream.