conscience: we can shake hands on that." Which (oddly enough, perhaps)

we did.

Amongst the papers we found a considerable sprinkling of photographs;

for the most part either of very debonair-looking young ladies or old

women of the lodging-house persuasion. But one among them was the means

of our crowning discovery.

"They're not pretty, are they, Mr. Dodd?" said Nares, as he passed it

over.

"Who?" I asked, mechanically taking the card (it was a quarter-plate)

in hand, and smothering a yawn; for the hour was late, the day had been

laborious, and I was wearying for bed.

"Trent and Company," said he. "That's a historic picture of the gang."

I held it to the light, my curiosity at a low ebb: I had seen Captain

Trent once, and had no delight in viewing him again. It was a photograph

of the deck of the brig, taken from forward: all in apple-pie order; the

hands gathered in the waist, the officers on the poop. At the foot of

the card was written "Brig Flying Scud, Rangoon," and a date; and above

or below each individual figure the name had been carefully noted.

As I continued to gaze, a shock went through me; the dimness of sleep

and fatigue lifted from my eyes, as fog lifts in the channel; and I

beheld with startled clearness the photographic presentment of a crowd

of strangers. "J. Trent, Master" at the top of the card directed me to

a smallish, weazened man, with bushy eyebrows and full white beard,

dressed in a frock coat and white trousers; a flower stuck in his

button-hole, his bearded chin set forward, his mouth clenched with

habitual determination. There was not much of the sailor in his looks,

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