"Mystery is the word," said Honora. "This is a night of mystery. But a story without an end to it——"
"Like the history of Ireland," said Ledwith dryly.
"Is the very one to keep us thinking and talking for a month," said Grahame. "Captain, if you will oblige us, a story of failure and of mystery."
"Such a one is fresh in my mind, for I fled from my ill-success to take charge of this expedition," said the Captain, whose voice was singularly pleasant. "The detective grows stale sometimes, as singers and musicians do, makes a failure of his simplest work, and has to go off and sharpen his wits at another trade. I am in that condition. For twenty months I sought the track of a man, who disappeared as if the air absorbed him where he last breathed. I did not find him. The search gave me a touch of monomania. For two months I have not been able to rest upon meeting a new face until satisfied its owner was not—let us say, Tom Jones."
"Are you satisfied, then," said Arthur, "that we are all right?"
"He was not an Irishman, but a Puritan," replied the Captain, "and would not be found in a place like this. I admit I studied your faces an hour or so, and asked about you among the men, but under protest. I have given up the pursuit of Tom Jones, and I wish he would give up the pursuit of me. I had to quiet my mind with some inquiries."
"Was there any money awaiting Tom? If so, I might be induced to be discovered," Grahame said anxiously.
"You are all hopeless, Mr. Grahame. I have known you and Mr. Ledwith long enough, and Mr. Dillon has his place secure in New York——"
"With a weak spot in my history," said Arthur. "I was off in California, playing bad boy for ten years."
The Captain waved his hand as admitting Dillon's right to his personality.