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HEN I left the office at noon next day, I took a cross-town car which eventually landed me at the foot of West Tenth Street, where the red and black steamers of the Quebec line load and unload their West Indian cargoes. There were other lines plying to Martinique, but none with arrivals which approximated the date given me by Cecily, as I had found by reference to a file of the Maritime Gazette. Of the Quebec fleet, the Parima had arrived on February 23d, and had sailed again on the 5th of March. A reference to the paper of the day before showed me that she had just arrived in port again. There, sure enough, she was, drawn up beside the dock, while two noisy donkey engines were puffing away at the task of lifting great barrels of sugar from her hold. I hunted up the purser without delay.

“May I see your passenger list for your last trip north?” I asked; “the trip before this one.”

“Certainly,” he responded, and produced it.

It was not a long one, and in a moment I had found what I was looking for. Victor Tremaine and wife were fifth on the list. But no “H. Thompson” appeared there. However, I had a last resource—I had scarcely expected to find him entered among the passengers.