They assured him that a sailor named Patrick O’Donoghan, had survived the shipwreck of the “Cynthia,” and had even returned to New York several times since that eventful voyage.  This Patrick O’Donoghan had been on the “Cynthia,” on her last voyage, and had been a special attendant of the captain.  In all probability he would know the first-class passengers, who always eat at the captain’s table.  They judged by the fineness of the infant’s clothing that he belonged to this class.  It was now a matter of the greatest importance to find this sailor.

This was the conclusion of Dr. Schwaryencrona and Mr. Bredejord, when Erik informed them of his discovery, when he returned to the Fifth Avenue Hotel to dinner.

As usual it led to a discussion, since the doctor tried to draw from this discovery a confirmation of his favorite theory.

“If ever there was an Irish name,” he cried, “Patrick O’Donoghan is one.  Did I not always say that I was sure that Erik was of Irish birth?”

“Does this discovery prove it?” asked Mr. Bredejord laughing.  “An Irish cabin-boy does not prove much.  It would be difficult, I fancy, to find an American vessel without one or two natives of Erin among her crew.”

They discussed the matter for two or three hours, neither of them willing to give way to the other.

From that day Erik devoted all his energies to the task of finding Patrick O’Donoghan.

He was not successful it is true, but by force of seeking, and questioning, he discovered a sailor who had known this man, and who was able to give him some information.  Patrick O’Donoghan was a native of the County Cork.  He was between thirty-three and thirty-four years old, of medium height, with red hair, black eyes, and a nose which had been broken by some accident.

“A boy one would remember among a thousand,” said the sailor.  “I recollect him very well, although I have not seen him for seven or eight years.”

“Is it in New York you usually meet him?” asked Erik.

“Yes, in New York, and in other places; but the last time was in New York.”

“Do you know any one who could give me any information about him, so that I could find out what has become of him?”

“No, unless it is the proprietor of the hotel called the Red Anchor, in Brooklyn.  Patrick O’Donoghan lodges there when he is in New York.  The name of the hotel-keeper is Mr. Bowles, and he is an old sailor.  If he does not know, I do not know of any one else who can tell you anything about him.”

Erik hurried on board one of the ferry-boats that cross the East River, and ten minutes later he was in Brooklyn.

At the door-way of the Red Anchor he saw an old woman, who was neatly dressed, and busily occupied in peeling potatoes.

“Is Mr. Bowles at home?” he said, saluting her politely, after the custom of his adopted country.

“He is at home, but he is taking a nap,” answered the good woman, looking with curiosity at her questioner.  “If you have any message for him, you can give it to me.  I am Mrs. Bowles.”