“Like Fochard, he will hold the dispatch until he can secure the service of an intermediary. A man of his desperate and enterprising nature will not remain in a king’s ship very long; he’ll escape at the first opportunity. Then he will seek to dispose of the paper, and it may be my luck to once more stumble upon some trace of it.” “Fate does, indeed, seem to lead you by the hand in the matter,” smiled Richard Dale. “But she has, up to the present, held you back when upon the very threshold of success.” “It will not be always so, perhaps,” said Ethan earnestly. “Let us hope so, at least.” The vessel landed them at Brest secretly; the Scotch skipper seemed to have some sort of an understanding with the authorities, and though they gave him no trouble when he ran in, still he did the thing with all speed, and immediately made sail once more. After securing lodgings they began making inquiries regarding American warships in French waters. “There was a fleet of four ships sailed out of L’Orient not long since,” replied the person asked. “The French government provided the vessels, I think, but the commander was an American.” “And who was he?” “Why, none other than your great Captain John Paul Jones.” Ethan and Dale uttered exclamations of bitter disappointment. “You are positive of this, I suppose,” said the former. “Quite so, monsieur. The sailing of the squadron was upon every one’s tongue a short time ago.” “There is no use in crying over spilled milk,” said Dale, with a sigh as they walked away. “As Captain Jones is gone, I’ll have a try for some other American skipper.” But there was none in Brest at that time; and after a two days’ stay Dale said to Ethan, “I think I’ll go to L’Orient. There at least must be an American privateer there that I can get a berth in.” “I’ll go with you,” said Ethan; “then I shall go on to Paris, report my further failure to Dr. Franklin, and after that sail for home.” They traveled by diligence to L’Orient, which was no great distance from Brest. Dale at once sought out a shipping office which he knew to be much frequented by American shipmen in search of hands to man their crafts. A trim looking midshipman stood near the door, and he looked at them with attention as they entered. Directly behind him loomed a tall, spare, large boned man of singular erectness. He had an ugly sabre stroke across his face. “Longsword!” cried Ethan as his delighted eyes fell upon him. “Master Ethan,” came a deep chested shout from the Irish dragoon. Then with a wild Irish “hurro!” he leaped forward and clasped the boy in a bear-like hug. “I thought you had been taken prisoner,” gasped the young American, breathless from the pressure which the powerful trooper had put upon his ribs.