“It might be in five minutes’ time, and it might be in a month,” said the old man firmly, “but it’ll come back.” He took the portrait from the hands of the now sulky cook and strove to jog his memory with it. “John Dunn’s his name,” he cried suddenly. “John Dunn.” “Where does ’e live?” inquired the cook eagerly. “Holebourne,” said the old man—“a little place seven miles off the road.” “Are you sure it’s the same,” asked the cook in a trembling voice. “Sartain,” said the other firmly. “He come here first about six years ago, an’ then he quarrelled with his landlord and went off to Holebourne.” The cook, with a flushed face, glanced along the quay to the schooner. Work was still proceeding amid a cloud of white dust, and so far his absence appeared to have passed unnoticed. “If they want any dinner,” he muttered, alluding to the powdered figures at work on the schooner, “they must get it for theirselves, that’s all. Will you come and ’ave a drop, old man?” The old man, nothing loath, assented, and having tasted of the cook’s bounty, crawled beside him through the little town to put him on the road to Holebourne, and after seeing him safe, returned to his beloved post. The cook went along whistling, thinking pleasantly of the discomfiture of the other members of the crew when they should discover his luck. For three miles he kept on sturdily, until a small signboard, projecting from between a couple of tall elms, attracted his attention to a little inn just off the road, at the porch of which a stout landlord sat on a wooden stool waiting for custom. The cook hesitated a moment, and then marching slowly up, took a stool which stood opposite and ordered a pint. The landlord rose and in a heavy, leisurely fashion, entered the house to execute the order, and returned carefully bearing a foaming mug. “Take the top off,” said the cook courteously. The stout man, with a nod towards him, complied. “’Ave a pint with me,” said the cook, after a hasty glance into the interior, as the landlord handed him the mug. “You keep that one,” he added. The stout man drew another pint, and subsiding on to his stool with a little sigh, disposed himself for conversation. “Taking a country walk?” he inquired. The cook nodded. “Not all pleasure,” he said importantly; “I’m on business.” “Ah, it’s you fellows what make all the money,” said the landlord. “I’ve only drawn these two pints this morning. Going far?” “Holebourne,” said the other. “Know anybody there?” asked the landlord. “Well, not exactly,” said the cook; “I carn’t say as I know ’im. I’m after a party o’ the name o’ Dunn.” “You won’t get much out of him,” said the landlady, who had just joined them. “He’s a close un, he is.” The cook closed his eyes and smiled knowingly. “There’s a mystery about that man,” said the landlady. “Nobody knows who he is or what he is, and he won’t tell ’em. When a man’s like that you generally know there’s something wrong—leastways I do.”