and the engine all glow, smoke, and impatience,
panting for release. Here Saxon exchanged the
dismal hotel fly for a warm corner in a dimly-
lighted railway carriage, and so sped on again
till the train stopped at the Bristol station, where
he alighted, jumped into a cab, and bade the
driver take him to Cumberland Basin.

The way to this place lay through a tangled
maze of narrow by-streets, over lighted bridges,
along silent quays, and beside the floating
harbour thick with masts, till they came to an office
close beside a pair of huge gates, beyond which
more masts were dimly visible. There were lights
in the windows of this office, the door of which
was presently opened by a sleepy porter, who,
being questioned about the boats which had left
Cumberland Basin that day, said he would call
Mr. Lillicrap, and vanished. After a delay of
several minutes, Mr. Lillicrap came out from an
inner room—a small, pallid young man, redolent
of tobacco and rum, and disposed to be snappish.

Boats? he said. Boats? Very extraordinary
hour to come there asking about boats. Did
people suppose that boats went out from the
Basin at midnight? Had any boats gone out
that day? Absurd question! Of course boats
had gone out. Boats went out every day. There
had been a boat to Ilfracombe—that went at
five; a boat to Hayle—at half-past three; one
to Swansea, at half-past four; and the daily
boat to Portishead at two. Any others? Oh yes,
to be sure—one other. The Daughter of Ocean
for Bordeaux—not a fixed boat. Went about
twice a month, and started to-day about four.

For Bordeaux! Saxon's pulse leaped at the
name.

"The Daughter of Ocean carries passengers,
of course?" he asked quickly.

"Oh yes—of course."

"And there is a regular steam service, is
there not, between Bordeaux and America?"

Mr. Lillicrap stared and laughed.

"To be sure there is," he replied. "The
French service. But what traveller in his senses
would go from Bristol to Bordeaux to get to
New York, when he can embark at Liverpool or
Southampton? Out of the question."

But Saxon, instead of arguing this point with
Mr. Lillicrap, begged to know where he should
apply for information about those passengers who
had gone with the steamer that afternoon;
whereupon Mr. Lillicrap, who was really
disposed to be obliging, despite his irascibility,
offered to send the porter with him to a certain
booking-office where these particulars might
perhaps be ascertained. So Saxon followed the man
over a little drawbridge, and across a dreary yard
full of casks and packing-cases to another office,
where, although it was so long past business
hours, a pleasant kind of foreman came down to
speak to him. The books, he said, were locked
up, and the clerks gone hours ago; but he
himself remembered the lady and gentleman perfectly
well. The lady wore deep black, and the
gentleman carried a large carpet-bag in his hand.

He recollected having seen the gentleman
several days before. He came down to the
office, and took the double passage, and paid the
double fare in advance. They came on board a
little after three o'clock it—might be half-past three
and the Daughter of Ocean steamed out about
a quarter-past four. If, however, the gentleman
would come there any time after eight to-morrow
morning, he could see the books, and welcome.

But Saxon had no need to see the books now.
They could tell him no more than he knew
already.

CHAPTER LXXXIX. THE MAN OF THE PEOPLE.

ALTHOUGH he left Bristol by the first morning
express, Saxon yet found that he must perforce
wait in town till evening, before he could pursue
his journey further. The early continental mail
train was, of course, long gone ere he reached
Paddington, and the next would not leave London
Bridge till eight P.M. As for the tidal route
via Boulogne, it fell so late in the afternoon, that
he would in no wise be a gainer by following it.
So he had no resource but to wait patiently, and
bear the delay with as much philosophy as he
could muster to his aid.

In the mean while, he was quite resolved to
keep clear of his allies, and accept no aid from
without. The clue which he now held was of
his own finding, and the failure or success with
which he should follow it up must be his own
likewise. So he went neither to Lombard-street
to learn if there were news of Laurence Greatorex,
nor to Chancery-lane to consult with Mr.
Keckwitch, nor even to his club; but, having
looked in at his chambers and desired the
imperturbable Gillingwater to prepare his travelling
kit and have his dinner ready by a certain hour,
the young man thought he could not spend his
"enforced leisure" better than by taking William
Trefalden at his word, and learning from Mr.
Behrens' own lips the true story of the
Castletowers mortgage.

The woolstapler's offices were easily found,
and consisted of a very dreary, dusty, comfortless
first floor in a dismal house at the further end of
Bread-street. On entering the outer room,
Saxon found himself in the presence of three
very busy clerks, a tall porter sitting humbly on
the extreme edge of a huge packing-case, a small
boy shrilly telling over a long list of names and
addresses, and a bulky, beetle-browed man in a
white hat, who was standing in a masterful
  attitude before the empty fireplace, his feet very
wide apart, and his hands clasped behind his
back. Saxon recognised him at once—keen grey
eyes, iron-grey hair, white hat, and all.

"Mr. Behrens, I believe?" he said.

The woolstapler nodded with surly civility.

"My name is Behrens," he replied.

"And mine, Trefalden. Will you oblige me
with five minutes' private conversation?"

Mr. Behrens looked at the young man with
undissembled curiosity.

"Oh, then you are Mr. Saxon Trefalden, I