“There’s nothing doing so far as the authorities are concerned,” remarked Tom, as we walked along. “We’ve got to try some other tack. If we could only find somebody here in town who wasn’t an official, and yet who would know where either of those ships stood. None of the dealers in ships’ stores would know, because the German boats would have received their stores at the wharf. By Jove, though, here’s an idea.” He brightened up. “If, by any lucky chance, they took on fuel here, we might get some light on the place from the coal man. Here’s a chemist’s shop, let’s look up a directory.” We entered, and ran rapidly over the names of dealers in the business directory that was handed us. Dealer after dealer, whose name appeared therein, sold goods that belong with the sea. Ship chandlery, plumbing for yachts and vessels, calkers, sailmakers. Ah, here it was! Fuel supplied to vessels. There were some fifteen names on the list. I copied them off, and turned to the young man behind the counter. “Which of this list,” I asked, “would be entirely capable of coaling a large merchantman immediately?” The clerk ran his eye down the list. “This, and this, and this firm,” he answered briefly, pointing at three. The office before which we finally stopped looked peculiarly businesslike as we reconnoitred through its broad window. “Looks just like home,” murmured Tom, as we gazed at the smart young man in dapper tweeds dictating to a stenographer whose pompadour, though like a single tree in a forest had it been on lower Broadway, yet seemed a rare exotic in this English seaport town. The Remington machine at one side, the brightness of the office furniture, the whole atmosphere, in short, was a stage picture, a sudden revival of the world we had left less than a week ago. “He is,” exclaimed Tom, without the slightest apparent connection. “See that life insurance calendar on the wall!” A flaming, big-lettered, American calendar appeared at the end of his pointing finger. “May as well play it boldly, anyway,” murmured Tom, pushing open the door. “Pardon me,” he said, as he entered. “We’re Americans, and want to know something about coal.” Our dapper friend from behind the desk was on his feet in a moment, stepping towards me with outstretched hand. “Mr. Orrington, I’m proud to see you here.” I looked at him in complete surprise, while Tom looked on in equal amaze. The stenographer sitting behind her keys raised one hand to pat her hair, and stared in undisguised and interested wonder. “I’m afraid you have the advantage of me,” I remarked. “That’s not surprising,” answered the young man with a smile. “You never saw me before, but look here.” I followed blindly around his desk, and waited while he pulled open a drawer at the side. “Exhibit Number one,” he remarked as he took out an American illustrated weekly bearing an imprint of my features. It had appeared just after my second signed story came out. “Oh,” I remarked briefly and lucidly.