“Who is there?” he exclaimed.
“Get up, John, and let me in, quickly,” said a voice from the outside of the window. “I have something interesting to tell you.”
“Is that you, Harry Marston?” asked John. “Wait a moment till I get on some of my clothes.”
In a few minutes the early visitor was admitted into the chamber. It was, as John had supposed, Henry Marston, the son of a wealthy planter in the neighbourhood. Being of an adventurous and roving disposition, he had been unwillingly allowed by his parents, some years before, to enter upon a seafaring life. He had risen rapidly in his chosen profession, and was now captain of the Sea-bird, a merchant vessel in which his father owned an interest, and which was engaged in trading between Baltimore and certain ports in the West Indies and along the Spanish main.
Young Marston was tall and handsome. His hair and the slight moustache which shaded his upper lip were of dark brown hue. His dark, hazel eyes were expressive, at the first glance, of both gentleness and resolution; but a second, and more observant look, discovered something more in them—a something that created uneasiness and a want of trust. Every movement of his body seemed instinct with grace. His voice was soft and musical, but it did not at all remind you of the singing of birds or of the tones of other cheerful and innocent creatures. Still, there was a peculiar fascination in his speech and manner, which possessed a great influence over certain natures. The young man was on this occasion dressed in a handsome suit of black broadcloth.
“How are you, Harry?” exclaimed John, as soon as his visitor entered the room. “This is, indeed, a surprise, and a delightful one. When did you get back home?”
“Last night,” was the answer, “or, rather, I should say this morning, since it was fully one o’clock when I got home. Everybody was aroused from sleep by my arrival; and the old folks insisted upon dressing and coming down to see me at once. All the little ones, too, came out of their nests to see the long-absent Harry. Thus, it was nearly three o’clock before I got a chance of retiring to my chamber, by which time the excitement of seeing so many loved ones banished from me all weariness and inclination to sleep. And this brings me to the cause of my so early visit to you.”
“In the delight of seeing you,” said John, “I had forgotten that subject entirely.”
“When I entered my chamber,” continued Henry Marston, “I found upon the floor, directly in front of the door by which I had come in, this singular and enigmatical card, enclosed in an envelope directed to my address—‘Captain Henry Marston, Blue Oldfields’—the name of my father’s place, you know. Remembering your fondness for adventure—we are alike in that respect, in truth—I came over here at once, to ask your assistance in developing the mystery. There is no time for delays, you see, as to-day is the twenty-first.”
The young sailor handed to his friend a card, on which was written, in letters imitating print, these words: