Strange fatality! George Fullerton was the name of the man who had seen him at the races, and so clumsily tried to screen him from me. The vessel in which he had shipped was gone—it had sailed the night before—but there was a chance of it stopping at Liverpool. I telegraphed thither and took the night mail, in case the vessel should touch, but the weather had proved too stormy, and she held on her course. Being so far on the way, and now perfectly sure of my man, I did not dream of turning back, but took passage for New York in a fast liner, which would easily have outstripped that in which the fugitive had got the start, but for one or two unforeseen accidents on the way, which added three days to the length of the passage. When we landed, the vessel in which “George Fullerton” had sailed was in the harbour, and my man gone. He was described to me by one of the sailors as depressed and sullen, but singularly free with his money. He had been taken on at the last moment in place of a man who had failed to appear, and so, instead of working his passage, had received full pay. On landing he had treated several of his mates liberally, and had seemed bent on nothing but getting rid of his money. “I believe I could find him for you,” said the man at last, and I readily accepted the offer. We made our way to a tavern near the harbour much frequented by seamen, and there, sitting alone with some drink before him, I found the counter-part of the spoilt photograph. I should have easily recognised him in a crowd, but with a foolhardiness almost incredible, he wore the fatal red neckerchief, which proved to be of silk, not cotton. I said nothing to my conductor beyond ordering for him a drink at the bar, and then went up and took a seat opposite the red necktie. “You’re a Scotchman, I think?” I said to him at last. “So are you,” he said, a little startled. “Yes. Long since you left the old country?” “Long enough,” he growled, “and it’ll be longer or I go back.” “Nonsense, man,” I said, without a smile. “I’m going back by the first ship. Suppose you go back with me?” “Never!” The word was accompanied by a deep oath, but I was busy with my hand in my pocket, which came out as he made a gulp at the drink before him, and brought up the barrel of a pistol levelled straight at his eyes. “Hands up! Tom Fisher,” I shouted as he staggered back, and the bystanders came crowding round. “I believe that’s the custom of this country, or the right thing to say when two are likely to play at one game. I’ve come all the way from Edinburgh to arrest you for stabbing Colin M^cCulloch. My name is M^cGovan, and I’ve the warrant in my pocket.” He gave in in the most sheepish and stupefied manner imaginable, and some one was obliging enough to snap my handcuffs on his wrists. I took him away in a _coupé_, and had him locked up till I should get the necessary papers filled up for his conveyance across the Atlantic.