He was, therefore, tolerably sure that the mysterious launch lay somewhere below the Custom House.

At the Custom House stairs, he landed, and asked for a very high official--an official inferior only to a Commissioner--whom he had entertained once in New York, and who had met him in London on business at Lloyd's.

In the large but dingy office of this great man a long conversation took place--a conversation in which Racksole had to exercise a certain amount of persuasive power, and which ultimately ended in the high official ringing his bell.
'Desire Mr Hazell--room No.

332--to speak to me,' said the official to the boy who answered the summons, and then, turning to Racksole: 'I need hardly repeat, my dear Mr Racksole, that this is strictly unofficial.' 'Agreed, of course,' said Racksole.
Mr Hazell entered.

He was a young man of about thirty, dressed in blue serge, with a pale, keen face, a brown moustache and a rather handsome brown beard.
'Mr Hazell,' said the high official, 'let me introduce you to Mr Theodore Racksole--you will doubtless be familiar with his name.