"No, sir, he is not," replied the Lieutenant, promptly.
"Who is he, then?" asked the other.
"Begging the gentleman's pardon, this is Mr. Philip Ryder, as I can swear," interrupted a fourth individual, who had just entered.
"Hello, Carncross! You here? And you know this young man?"
"Certainly I do, sir. I met his father, Mr. John Ryder—the famous mining expert, you know—at my father's house in San Francisco last winter, and came to call on him here as soon as I heard of his arrival in Tacoma. He and his son arrived on to-day's steamer from Alaska. He is also a friend of your friend Captain Matthews."
"What! Not Israel Matthews of the Phoca? You don't say so! Mr. Ryder, allow me to shake hands with you, and to offer my humble apologies for this absurd mistake."
At the end of an hour the revenue-officers were as puzzled as ever over the disappearance of the present owner of the famous Philip Ryder bag, and his companion; but suddenly Carncross exclaimed:
"I think I know what became of them! I remember now seeing the two chaps who came in that canoe run down the wharf and board the Alaska steamer just as she was starting for Seattle, and I'll warrant you that's where they are at this minute. Tough-looking fellows they were, too."
"In that case," said the Commander, rising, "I must be getting under way for Seattle as quickly as possible. I only wish that I might have you both down to dine with me this evening; but business before pleasure, and so I will wish you both a very good-night."