riage—April 16, 1884, to be exact—while assistant manager of the ship supplies house of Briquet Frères, he absconds with sixty thousand francs. It is discovered that he kept a mistress at Rouen. He is believed to have gone to America—to have been smuggled out of the harbour by a friendly American captain. Surely, it is not impossible,” he added, “that this friendly American captain was Thompson.”
“Very few things are impossible,” I commented; I began to be impatient with Godfrey. He was permitting his prejudice against Tremaine to warp his judgment.
“Well, we’ll keep that for a hypothesis, anyhow,” and he turned to the third clipping. “This,” he continued, “shows us that he indeed came to America. It is dated July 23, 1885, and states that a young Frenchman and a tramp skipper named Johnson—ah, you see?”
I did, indeed, see—here was the first appearance of Tremaine’s zombi—of his familiar devil. I looked at Godfrey with the liveliest admiration. This constructive reasoning was something which I, certainly, was quite incapable of.
“So that J on Thompson’s arm was the initial of his real name,” observed Godfrey. “I thought it was—it had been there a long time, and an effort had been made to erase it. After a man has started on the crooked path, he doesn’t want any tattoo marks on him—they make identification too easy. For Johnson, then, we’ll hereafter read Thompson.”
I nodded; I was beginning to be convinced.
“Well,” continued Godfrey, “Tremaine and
