“We used to call him Wildfire Ned,” said the stranger, laughing; “he is a lieutenant now, and on his way to London.” “It _must_ be Ned Warbeck, then,” said several. “It was none other,” said the stranger, laughing; “and I commanded the ship; my name is— “Captain, late Lieutenant, Garnet.” CHAPTER XXXIII. THE DISCOVERY OF FAMILY PAPERS BY WILDFIRE NED. The first thing which Ned did, when he arrived in London, was to report himself at the Admiralty, where many old naval officers of great reputation met and congratulated him on the great success which had attended him and Lieutenant Garnet in fighting against the Skeleton Crew. Honours were showered on him everywhere he went. Yet he was not happy. He had neither father nor mother, nor any single relation in the world. Sir Richard Warbeck he knew, and felt in his heart, was only a friend to him, and not an uncle. Who was he, then? “Am I lowly or highly born?” he thought. He felt that he must have sprung from a superior stock. Yes; but how? Was he entitled to any great estates in his own right? He felt that there was some dark, deep mystery hanging over him. He would have given the whole world to unravel it. But he could not. Sir Richard’s manner had always been very kind, good, and fatherly. But still with all that it was strange. His manner, it might be said, was like that of a man who knew some grand secret, and yet would not reveal it! “When King Charles the First was beheaded,” Ned thought, “the Cromwellians drove many rich and powerful nobles from the land, and confiscated all their great estates. “Suppose that my father was one of these! “He might have been a noble! Who knows?” thought Ned; and as this conviction flashed across his mind, he resolved to let no chance pass by in order to find it out. “Who was my father?” Ned had often asked of Sir Richard. The old man smiled, but answered not. The more he repeated this question and was put off, the more he resolved to find out the grand secret. All he could find out was this:— “I do not wonder that you and Phillip Redgill can never agree,” old Sir Richard would say; “for your families have always been at daggers’ points for centuries.” “Indeed!” Ned would say, “how?” “How I cannot explain yet,” was the invariable answer. “When you are twenty-one years old, you may know more; but this much I will tell you, Ned, that old Redgill, Phillip’s father, hated your father much worse than you do Phillip.” “How I cannot explain!” repeated Ned often, when in the cosy library at Darlington Hall, conversing with the old knight in long winter evenings. “How! Why, tell me all.” “You are too young yet; one day you will find out all if you live to be old enough!”