"Nothing but us two," says Tom.
"My wife's father is somewhere down this way," volunteered Mr. Phelps.
"You don't say!" says I, nudging Tom again under the cuddy table.
"A fine old gent," went on Mr. Phelps, "but he met misfortunes in the produce commission business, and had to get out very quiet."
"Too bad!" said I.
"It grieves my wife not to know where he is," continued Mr. Phelps, "she being greatly attached to her father, and him disappearing like that; and she told me not to grudge the matter of fifty pounds to find him."
"There's a lot of room in the South Seas to lose a produce commission merchant in," says I.
"Here's a likeness of him," says Mr. Phelps, taking a photograph out of his pocket, while four pairs of eyes settled on Tom and me like gimlets, and there was the kind of pause when pins drop.
"A very fine-appearing old gentleman," says I, starting in spite of myself when I saw it was a picture of Old Dibs.
"Give us a squint, Bill," says Tom, taking it out of my hands as bold as brass. And then: "I've seen that face somewhere; I know I have. Lord bless me, wherever could it have been?" And he looked at it, puzzled and recollectful, me holding my breath, and the rest of them giving a little jump in their seats.