All Colonel Fairfax’s coolness; all the aplomb that had made him a master of men; all his traditional self-possession dropped from him, and he stood stammering like any schoolboy. Dorothy’s eyes sparkled. “It’s all right, father,” she declared. “Frank married me to save me from that horrible Forbes. He didn’t want to do so because of that ridiculous accusation against him, but he couldn’t help it. I insisted on it. Shake hands with him. You and I are going to find the real murderer, and clear his name.” “But--but--Mr. Loving----” Loving, his face pale, but with a forced smile on his lips, struck in. “Hallo, Howard, old man,” he said, holding out his hand. “I was just waiting my chance to speak to you. Frank Howard is all right, colonel,” he continued earnestly, turning to the elder man. “I’ve told you so before, you know.” Colonel Fairfax had recovered his poise somewhat. “Well,” he said, “this isn’t the time or place to talk about it, though it is the time to thank you, Mr. Howard, for saving my girl’s life. It nearly killed me when I lost her. Come, let’s get on board--Good Heavens! Loving! What’s the matter?” Loving’s face had grown white as death, and his distended eyes seemed popping from their sockets. Following his gaze, the others saw Mr. Willoughby picking his way along the Seashark toward them. “Ah! Mr. Howard,” he said, holding out his hand to Loving, “I’m glad to see you here, for, of course, it means that you must have cleared yourself of that terrible charge. Quite a coincidence having another of the same name in our little party, isn’t it? I had meant to speak to him about you, but we have been in such a turmoil that I haven’t had the chance.” The changing expressions in the faces of his listeners suddenly caught the good man’s attention. “Why! What is the matter?” he explained. “I--I hope I don’t---- Surely you have cleared yourself of that charge, Mr. Howard?” Loving’s dry lips moved, but no sound came. The other men, too, were stricken dumb. Only Dorothy found breath. “This gentleman is Mr. Loving, Mr. Willoughby,” she gasped. “Why do you call him Howard?” The missionary turned a bewildered face to the girl. “I don’t understand,” he stammered. “I knew this gentleman as Mr. Howard in Porto Rico, where I married him to Dolores Montoro. Later she followed him to New York, and he was reported to have murdered her. I was coming to testify when I was wrecked, and----”