I've a shrewd guess where he's taken refuge; but I'll ferret him out. This employment seemed to afford him the highest satisfaction; for a diabolical grin—it cannot be called a smile—played upon his face all the time he was engaged in it. Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. “You were talking to that fellow Ramage to-day—in the Avenue.
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