As the prisoner and Officer Jackson, handcuffed together, came up the gang-plank, Renfrew, the attorney, standing on the promenade deck above, turned from his contemplation of the city of San Juan as it lay green and white in the afternoon sun, and bent forward. “By George,” he cried, exultingly, “that’s Frank Howard! He’s caught! Caught here, of all places in the world!” With hands tight gripped on the rail he watched the two men until they disappeared below; then, eager to share his discovery of the ending of a quest that had extended over two continents, he turned and hurried along the deck to where two ladies stood leaning against the taffrail. “Yes, my dear,” the elder was saying, “Porto Rico is pretty enough for any one. It looked pretty when I came, and it looks prettier as I go. But when you say it’s pretty, you exhaust its excellences. I, for one, shall be glad to see the last of it. And, considering the errand that takes you home, I imagine that you don’t regret leaving, either.” “The errand! I don’t understand, Mrs. Renfrew.” “Why! Your—but here comes Philip, evidently with something on his mind. Do listen to him patiently, if you can, my dear. He hasn’t had a jury at his mercy for a month. Unless somebody lets him talk, I’m afraid his bottled-up eloquence will strike in and prove fatal. Well, Philip!” Mr. Renfrew was close at hand. “Miss Fairfax! Maria!” he cried. “Who do you think is on board, a prisoner? Frank Howard! I just saw him brought over the gang-plank. He escaped two months ago, and the police have been looking for him ever since. They must have just caught him, or I should have heard of it. Who in the world can I ask?”