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 the bank. And by a fortunate coincidence&mdash;fortunate for Graeme, if not for Bennett—the description had fitted both of them and Fate had sacrificed the one to the other! So Bennett was a criminal! He did n’t look it,—and yet there was no room for doubt.

“Is Bennett his real name?” he asked.

“No—Chilvers—James Chilvers,” answered Binks rapturously. “A bloomin’ clerk. Mrs. Trevelyan knowed ’im at onct. Some doin’s, I calls hit, for this old tub! Well, I must be goin’ or Ponsonby ’ll tyke my hair off. Lemme see The Pink ’Un, when you ’re done with it.”

He made his departure lingeringly while Micky completed his toilet and glanced at the front page of The Winning Post, that edifying sheet edited by the celebrated Bob Sievier, and “having the largest circulation in the world of any paper costing more than a penny.”

Graeme seemed to have more lives than a cat! He couldn’t drown—must have been born to be hung. But evidently not just yet. Micky descended to the second cabin and bolted a bowl of coffee with some toast and marmalade.