Jane shut her eyes, and Dennison opened a novel. It was good reading, and

he became partially absorbed. The sudden creak of a chair brought his

glance round. His father had seated himself in the vacant chair.

The phase that dug in and hurt was that his father made no endeavour to

avoid him--simply ignored his existence. Seven years and not a crack in

the granite! He laid the book on his knees and stared at the rocking

horizon.

One of the crew passed. Cleigh hailed him.

"Send Mr. Cleve to me."

"Yes, sir."

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The air and the tone of the man were perfectly respectful.

When Cleve, the first officer, appeared his manner was solicitous.

"Are you comfortable, sir?"

"Would ten thousand dollars interest you?" said Cleigh, directly.

"If you mean to come over to your side, no. My life wouldn't be worth a

snap of the thumb. You know something about Dick Cunningham. I know him

well. The truth is, Mr. Cleigh, we're off on a big gamble, and if we win

out ten thousand wouldn't interest me. Life on board will be exactly as it

was before you put into Shanghai. More I am not at liberty to tell you."

"How far is the Catwick?"

"Somewhere round two thousand--eight or nine days, perhaps ten. We're not

piling on--short of coal. It's mighty difficult to get it for a private

yacht. You may not find a bucketful in Singapore. In America you can

always commandeer it, having ships and coal mines of your own. The drop

down to Singapore from the Catwick is about forty hours. You have coal in

Manila. You can cable for it."

"You are honestly leaving us at that island?"

"Yes, sir. You can, if you wish, take the run up to Saigon; but your

chance for coal there is nil."

"Cleve," said Cleigh, solemnly, "you appreciate the risks you are

running?"

"Mr. Cleigh, there are no risks. It's a dead certainty. Cunningham is one

of your efficiency experts. Everything has been thought of."

"Except fate," supplemented Cleigh.

"Fate? Why, she's our chief engineer!"

Cleve turned away, chuckling; a dozen feet off this chuckle became

boisterous laughter.

"What can they be after? Sunken treasure?" cried Jane, excitedly.

"Hangman's hemp--if I live long enough," was the grim declaration, and

Cleigh drew the rug over his knees.

"But it can't be anything dreadful if they can laugh over it!"

"Did you ever hear Mephisto laugh in Faust? Cunningham is a queer duck. I

don't suppose there's a corner on the globe he hasn't had a peek at. He

has a vast knowledge of the arts. His real name nobody seems to know. He

can make himself very likable to men and attractive to women. The sort of

women he seeks do not mind his physical deformity. His face and his

intellect draw them, and he is as cruel as a wolf. It never occurred to me

until last night that men like me create his kind. But I don't understand

him in this instance. A play like this, with all the future risks! After I

get the wires moving he won't be able to stir a hundred miles in any

direction."




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