"Yes," she said, "I will help, as far as I can. The best thing I can do for you is to introduce you to my father. He can help far more than I!"

"Thank you!" and he took her hand and held it. "It was your father I saw you with?"

"Yes. You will like him. He is the most wonderful man in the world. Now I must be going. He will be looking for me."

He went with her to the lower deck, then returned to the bench, and stared thoughtfully out over the dark sea. What a woman she was! And then he smiled a little as he recalled her last words, "The most wonderful man in the world!" He did not suspect that the time would come when he would echo them!



CHAPTER XII

UNDER RUSSIAN RULE

When Dan found his seat in the dining-saloon, that evening, he glanced up and down the long table, in the hope that Miss Vard and her father might be among his neighbours. But they were not, and it was not until he was half through the meal that he descried them at one of the tables on the other side of the room. At his own table there were the usual assorted types of the middle-class tourist, his wife and family, most of them frankly glad that they were homeward bound, with the greatest part of their pilgrimage accomplished.

The sea was smooth and the great boat forged ahead with scarcely any motion, so that every seat was occupied and every one in good spirits. There was a hum of talk and rattle of dishes; the white-coated stewards scuttled back and forth, and the scene was as pleasant as the wholesale human consumption of food can ever be.

Dan went on with his dinner with one eye on the far table where Miss Vard and her father were seated; but his attention was distracted for a time by a discussion which an Anglomaniac across the table started as to the relative merits of England and America, and to which he could not resist contributing a few remarks. When he glanced across the saloon again, he saw that Miss Vard and her father were no longer there. However, he finished his dinner with the comfortable consciousness that the second-class quarters were limited, and that she could not escape from them except by jumping overboard; and when the meal was ended, he made his way leisurely through the lounge and along the decks in search of her. There were girls, girls everywhere, but not the one he sought; and finally, with a little smile, he mounted the ladder which led to the after boat-deck.

Already other couples, scouting about the ship, had discovered the advantages of its dim seclusion, and most of the benches in the lee of the boats and about the little wireless-house were occupied; but, on that one bench, in the shadow of the after life-boat, Dan descried a solitary figure. He advanced without hesitation.

"I was hoping I should find you," he said.

She moved a little aside, as an invitation for him to share the bench.

"I like it up here," she said, "with no light but the stars, and that strange luminous glow along those wires up yonder."

Looking up, Dan saw that the gridiron of wires stretched between the masts was, indeed, faintly luminous against the sky.

"That's the wireless," he said. "Listen—you can hear it," and from the open window of the wireless-house came the vicious snap and crackle of electricity. "The operator is sending a message."

She looked up again at the glowing wires.

"I think it the most wonderful thing in the world!" she said. "I can't understand it—I can't believe it—and yet, there it is!"

"Yes—and I suppose it has become an every-day affair to the operator in there; it isn't wonderful to him any more. We forget how wonderful a lot of things are, when we get used to them."

"How wonderful everything is," she corrected; "the sunrise, the ocean...."

They sat for some time in silence, gazing out across the dark and restless water, touched here and there with white, as a wave combed and broke. Then Dan's gaze wandered to her face. Seen thus, in the dim light, framed by her dark hair, it, too, seemed wonderful to him; there was about it a mystic allusiveness, a subtle charm, far more compelling than mere beauty ever is; her eyes had depths to them....

She felt his gaze upon her and turned her face to him and smiled.

"You may smoke, if you wish," she said. "I can feel that at the back of your mind."

"I believe I was thinking about it," Dan admitted, and got out his pipe; but he had himself been scarcely conscious of the thought, and it amazed him that she should have detected it. There was the flare of a match, and he sat back again, exhaling a long puff. "Now," he said, "you are going to begin my education. I am ready for the first lesson."

"How shall I begin?"

"I think an excellent way would be to tell me something about yourself," he suggested.

She considered him gravely.

"Are you really in earnest?" she asked.

"Indeed I am," he answered quickly, colouring a little under her searching eyes. "Forgive me if I seemed not to be. And please begin in any way you think best."

"I will tell you something about Poland," she said, "and then you will understand a little what I and all like me feel for America. You know, I suppose, that there is no longer any such land as Poland?"

"I know that Russia and one or two other powers divided it, about a hundred years ago."

"Yes; but you cannot know what that division meant! The Poles were a brave and patriotic people; they loved their country as few peoples do; and all at once, great armies were flung upon them; they were overwhelmed, and their country was taken away. They lost more than their country: they lost their language, their history, their national life. But in spite of it all, they remained Poles.

"I was born in Russian Poland, not far from Warsaw. From the very first, I was taught that I was a Pole, not a Russian. But only at home, under my own roof, could I be a Pole. The teaching of Polish was forbidden in any school—every word spoken must be Russian. If children were overheard talking in Polish, they were arrested by the police and their parents summoned and fined. On every public building there was a painted notice: 'It is forbidden to speak Polish.' All trials were conducted in Russian, although none of the peasants understood Russian, and so had no idea of what was being said. No official was permitted to answer a question in Polish—I have known a tramcar conductor to be heavily fined for doing so.

"We were taught history in which the name of our fatherland was never mentioned, but where Russia was treated as the wisest, best, and most powerful of nations, with the Czar second only to God himself. We could not leave our native village without permission from the police. No Pole could fill any public office. No Pole was permitted to publish a book or a newspaper or even a handbill, until a Russian censor had passed upon it. If you ever visit Poland, you will notice, here and there, groups of tall wooden crosses. They mark graves. But if one of those crosses decays or falls down, it may not be replaced without permission from the government. One night, the cross over the grave of my father's mother was struck by lightning; and for two years it lay there, until permission to replace it had come from Petersburg. It was among such surroundings that my childhood was passed."

Kasia did not seem to realise that, instead of telling about Poland, she was telling about herself; and Dan was deeply moved. He had listened, in his day, to many stories, but never to one like this. It was as though the dead wrappings of history were stripped away, and its seething, desperate, tragic heart laid bare.

"Go on," he said thickly, and folded his arms tightly across his breast.

"My father had hoped to be a student of science," she went on; "but he was refused admission to the university because of some absurd suspicion, and after that he could study only secretly. When he married, he rented a little farm near Warsaw; and there he and mother toiled all day long, and the children too, as soon as they were old enough. There were four children—two boys and two girls. I was the youngest. Twice every year, my mother, my sister and I walked in to Warsaw, and spent a week there helping to clean the streets; this service was required of all families in the villages about Warsaw, and could be escaped only by paying a heavy tax. We had also to assist in keeping the roads in repair, and for this, too, the women and children were employed, since the men could not be spared from the work of the farm. At nightfall we were always exhausted, and would swallow our soup and black bread hastily, and then fling ourselves down, dressed as we were, on a heap of straw in one corner. We were very poor, and yet not so poor as we seemed; but to have added one little comfort to our home would have meant a visit from the tax-inquisitor, and perhaps a search. The only way to escape this was to live in miserable poverty.

"In spite of all this, my father still kept up his studies. At night, after carefully closing the shutters and stuffing the cracks with rags, so that no ray of light could be seen outside, he would light a little tallow dip and sit reading for hours. He read the same books over and over, for books were very hard to get. The ones he wanted were almost always forbidden. To be found possessing one meant banishment. So all of his books he kept concealed even more carefully than he did his money. Indeed, he valued them more!

"Sundays he devoted to the education of his children, always with one of us on guard outside the door. It was then that I learned to read English. Father had taught himself with great thoroughness, because he was determined some day to go to America. America—that was his dream! But how to get there! It seemed certain that he could never save money enough to pay for so many. That problem was soon to be settled."

She paused and put her hand to her throat, shivering a little.

"Are you cold?" Dan asked.

"No; I am trembling at the thought of what remains to tell. A case of cholera appeared in our village. It was reported to the magistrate. At once all the Russian officials removed to Warsaw, and a cordon of Russian troops was thrown about the village. No one was permitted to enter or to leave. The cholera spread. The people were ignorant; they did not know what to do, and there was no one to tell them; they could only wait and pray. At the end of a month, the disease had spent itself, but of those who had lived in the village, only one in ten remained. Of our family, there were left only my father and myself."

Dan's hand went out to hers. She did not draw away.

"For a time," she went on, "father was stunned by the blow; I have always believed that he was very near madness. But he shook off his sorrow and decided that the time had come to seek America. We could not depart openly; that was not permitted; so one night he dug up the little hoard of money he had concealed, cut off my hair and dressed me in boys' clothes, arrayed himself in the rags of a goat-herd, and about midnight we set off. I was eleven years old at the time, and I remember every incident distinctly. We could travel only at night, hiding at every sound. By day, we concealed ourselves under culverts, in ditches, under heaps of brush. Luckily, Polish people are eager to help each other, so we did not starve, and we got forward a little every night. At the end of six weeks, we crossed the frontier and were safe.

"There is not much more to tell. We reached New York; and I was placed in school—I wish you could realise all that meant to me! For a long time, I could not go out into the street without being afraid. It seemed impossible that there was no longer anything to fear. When at last I understood, it was as though a great load were lifted. That was ten years ago. For the past three years, I have been a teacher in the Hester Street school."

She sat silent for a moment, then with a long breath, drew her hand away.

"Do you wonder that I love America?" she asked.

"No," said Dan; "and you have made me a better patriot."

She turned to him, with a little smile.

"And now I think of it," she added, "it was my story I told you, after all!"

"Your story helps me to understand Poland's. That is the way history should be written."

"I think so, too. There is not enough in most histories of the common people. And my father says it is only they who really matter. He has thought very deeply. It is his dream to make all other countries like America—free, peaceful, industrious—only better than America has yet become, in that poverty and inequality and injustice will be abolished."

"A magnificent dream," Dan agreed, with a smile; "but impossible of accomplishment, I'm afraid."

"No, it is not impossible!" she cried quickly. "It will be accomplished, and by him!"

Dan looked at her curiously. Her eyes were blazing, and she spoke with a conviction, with an enthusiasm, which puzzled him.

"Tell me something about your father," he suggested. "You said he was the most wonderful man in the world."

"And I meant it. Could anything be more wonderful than to force all the nations of the earth to break up their navies, to dismantle their forts, to disband their armies? Could anything be more wonderful than to put an end, once for all, to this waste of life and treasure, which is eating at the heart of the world? Could anything be more wonderful than to turn all these armies of useless men back into honest and useful labour? Then no longer would you see women gathering the harvest, or struggling under cruel burdens, or cleaning the streets, or spreading manure over the fields! No, nor walking the pavements of the cities! Would you not say that the man who brought all this about was a wonderful man?"

"Wonderful!" echoed Dan. "Why, wonderful would be no name for it! But it is something that no man can ever do."

"It will be done, believe me," she said, solemnly, "and by my father."

Dan could only stare at her. It seemed absurd to suppose that she could be in earnest; but certainly her face was earnest to solemnity. It shone with consecration.

"But I don't understand," he stammered. "It's too big for me. How is it to be accomplished? How can one man bring it about? I can see how the Czar or Kaiser might set to work, but even they could not hope to succeed. The Czar did try something of the sort, didn't he?"

"Yes; but he was not in earnest, and the other nations laughed. At my father they will not laugh, for he is in deadly earnest. As to how this is to be done, I may not tell you, not yet—some day, perhaps. But one thing I may tell you, and it is this—my father holds the nations of the world in the hollow of his hand!"

For a moment there was silence between them. The moon had risen as they talked, and the dark sea was illumined by a broad path of silver. The boat-deck was almost deserted; the snapping of the wireless had ceased. Miss Vard looked about her with a little start.

"It must be very late," she said. "I must be going."

As Dan followed her across the deck, he noticed a dark figure on the bench next to the one where he and Miss Vard had sat. And as they passed, the stranger struck a match and lighted a cigarette. By the glare of the flame, Dan saw that it was his roommate, Chevrial.



CHAPTER XIII

IN THE WIRELESS HOUSE

Fritz Ludwig, the tall, blond young man who earned his eighty marks per month as wireless man on the Ottilie, having eaten his dinner with the passengers of the second-cabin and smoked a meditative pipe at the door of the little coop on the after boat-deck which served him as office and bedroom, knocked out the ashes and entered his citadel to prepare for the night's business. But first he connected up his detector and snapped the receivers against his ears, just to see what might be going on. The operator on the Adriatic, a hundred miles behind them, was gossiping with Poldhu, and far ahead two boats were exchanging information about the weather. Then Ludwig glanced up quickly, for a step had sounded at the door, and he saw a man just stepping over the threshold.

"No admittance here!" he called sharply; but the man advanced another step, smiling broadly.

"My dear Fritz!" he said in German. "Do you not know me?"

And Fritz, staring upwards, and seeing his visitor's face clearly, tore off the receivers, sprang to his feet and saluted.

"Admiral Pachmann!" he gasped.

Pachmann laughed. Then he turned, closed the door, and drew the shade before the window.

"Yes, it is I; but don't shout it so loudly, Fritz. Let us sit down. I saw you at dinner to-night—yes, I, too, am of the second class!—and I trembled lest you might recognise me and shout my name out in just that fashion. So, as soon as I could, I hastened up to warn you. I am travelling incognito upon official business, and in public you are not to know me."

"I understand, Herr Admiral," said Fritz. "I shall be most careful."

"It is most important," Pachmann warned him; "and I shall trust you not to forget. How do you like your work here?"

"Very well, sir. I find it very interesting."

"I shall have you back in the service, nevertheless, one of these days," Pachmann said. "Perhaps sooner than you think," he added.

"I am always ready, sir," said Fritz.

Pachmann drew out a cigar and lighted it.

"Go ahead with your work," he said. "There is no music to me so pleasant as the snapping of the spark."

Fritz laughed.

"I know that, sir," he said. "I have an extra receiver, if you care to put it on."

"Yes, give it to me," said the Admiral; and in a moment it, too, was connected with the detector.

Fritz replaced his own, started his converter and snapped out into the air the signal which told the waiting world that the operator of the Ottilie was ready to receive anything it might have to communicate. Almost at once Southampton answered, and there was a little preliminary tuning, till the signals came clear and strong. Then Fritz drew a pad toward him, picked up a freshly sharpened pencil, and told Southampton to go ahead.

"SN three fr DKA," began Southampton. "Time 9:50 G."

Which meant that Southampton had for the Prinzsessin Ottilie three messages and that the time was 9:50 o'clock Greenwich.

Fritz glanced at the clock above his desk.

"Time OK. GA," he signalled, the "GA" being radio for "Go ahead."

"MSG one," went on Southampton. "Eight w Gary. DKA. Directors have command of situation. Morrissy.

"MSG two. Nine w Gardenshire, DKA. Missed boat will follow by Carmania. Hickle.

"MSG three. Eleven w Hodges, DKA. Coffee will go thirteen Thursday shall I sell. Perkins."

Fritz had taken it all down with religious care. At the last word he snapped open his key.

"OK. Thanks GN," he ticked off, the "GN" being, of course, "good-night."

He waited a moment, but there were no other calls for the Ottilie, and he took off his receiver. Pachmann followed suit.

"That was a great pleasure," said the latter. "The signals are very clear to-night."

"If you could come in later on, sir," Fritz suggested, "you could hear the news service from Poldhu. There is a station for you!"

"At what hour does the service start?" asked Pachmann.

"Poldhu always calls at eleven-thirty, sir, and starts the news service as soon as the commercial business is out of the way."

"I shall try to be here," said Pachmann. "This long-distance service is a great delight to me, especially when it works so clearly as it does to-night. You will not forget about my incognito?"

"I shall not forget, sir," Fritz assured him, and with a short nod, Pachmann left the house. Fritz sat down again to copy out his messages and to send three or four which the captain's steward at that moment brought in. That done, he thrust his head out for a breath of air, noticed with a grin the couples who had already discovered the advantages of the boat-deck benches, and then went back to his key for a little gossip with such other Marconi men as might be within reach. It was nearly eleven-thirty, and all of them were sitting at their tables, waiting for the far-flung signal which would tell that the operator at Poldhu, that lonely station on the last sheer cliff of Cornwall, was ready for his night's work. And a minute later, the door opened and Pachmann came in.

"I could not resist your invitation, Fritz," he said. "This gets into one's blood," and he adjusted the extra receiver and sat down.

Almost at once came the CQ, CQ, CQ, ZZ, ZZ, ZZ, which told that Poldhu was calling for all stations and on every ship within a thousand miles of that point of rock, the wireless man tuned up his instrument, and waited. The commercial messages came first, and there were a lot of them; four for the Ottilie, three for the Adriatic, five to be relayed far ahead to the Mauretania, one for the incoming Majestic, and one for the Rotterdam. Then the Poldhu man announced that he was ready to receive, and as many more were sent out into the night to him, for relay on to London, and from there to far-separated points on the continent. At last there was a moment's pause, a moment's silence, and then the SP, SP, SP, which told that the news service was about to start. And every man within hearing picked up a fresh pencil and made ready to write, as from dictation.

"SP, SP, SP," snapped Poldhu. "Time 12:54 G. Three hundred wds.

"War between Italy and Turkey seems inevitable stop Italy gives Turkey twenty-four hours to agree to Italy's occupation of Tripoli stop Six thousand troops at Palermo ready to embark stop Turkish munitions and reinforcements already landed stop Board of Inquiry into La Liberte disaster goes into secret session stop Rumour of attempt to destroy La Patrie also stop Moroccan situation grows more serious stop Germany demands equal rights with France abrogating Algeciras treaty stop Directors steel trust declare company is legal corporation and will not take voluntary steps to dissolve stop Officially announced at Chicago that one hundred thousand men on Harriman lines will strike Saturday stop September coffee sells at twelve-ninety-eight New York exchange record price stop Boy Scouts called out to fight plague of wasps in England stop...."

And so on to the end of the message. And when the end was reached, the man at Poldhu waited fifteen minutes and then started all over again and sent the message a second time, so that every one would be sure to get it all. Then he shut off and went to bed.

Thursday dawned clear and warm, and the Ottilie's passengers, appearing on deck by twos and threes, rejoiced that the day was to be a fine one. They found the world-news of the day before awaiting them on the bulletin board at the head of the main companion-way, and had great fun deciphering it, very few of them stopping to think how wonderful it was that it should be there at all. And then some of them celebrated their first morning at sea by a three-mile tramp before breakfast; others, less strenuous, lounged at the rail, waiting impatiently for the breakfast-gong; a few, finding themselves disturbed by the slow and even motion of the ship, bundled themselves up in their steamer-chairs and hoped that nature would soon readjust itself. Then the gong sounded, and the deck was deserted, except by the bundled-up occupants of the chairs, to whom the solicitous deck-steward brought, more or less vainly, various light articles of food.

An hour later, the decks were full again. From the upper deck came the clack of shuffle-board; on the promenade deck the chairs were full of novel-readers, and little groups here and there were making each other's acquaintance. The life of shipboard had begun.

On the boat-deck, various passengers, singly or in twos and threes, paused to listen to the crackle of electricity which came from the little wireless-house. The door was closed, but by standing on tiptoe they could see over the screen at the window, and catch a glimpse of a blond young man, with a receiver clamped over both ears, bending above his key, from which came a series of vicious-looking sparks. The sound was vaguely disquieting, suggesting lightning to the more timid, or some strange and dangerous force of nature not to be trifled with, so most of them preferred to descend again to the upper promenade, or to sit down some distance away. Presently two men climbed the ladder from the deck below, and looked about them.

"Let us sit here," said the younger of them, in German, and motioned toward a bench which had been built against the cabin.

"Very well, Your...." He stopped himself abruptly. "It is difficult to break oneself of a long habit," he said, with a little laugh; and, waiting for the other to seat himself, sat down beside him.

They lighted cigarettes and sat for a moment without speaking.

There was a considerable difference in the ages of the two. One was past middle-age, heavily-built, and with a face bronzed as only years of exposure to wind and rain could bronze it. His upper lip was a shade or two lighter than the rest of his face, and spoke of a moustache recently removed. The other man had also an outdoor look, but he had not been hardened by long service as his companion had. He was softer, more effeminate. He seemed to be not over twenty-one or two, was tall, a little too much inclined to plumpness, but with an open and ingenuous countenance, lighted by a pair of honest blue eyes.

"It is good," said the older man, at last, speaking in German and in a tone carefully guarded, "to sit here and listen to the crackle of the wireless—it seems to fit in, somehow, with this beautiful morning. I have grown to love it; and I have never conquered my wonder—it is so marvellous that one can throw into the atmosphere a message to be picked up and understood hundreds of miles away. It seems even more wonderful on the ocean than on the land. A message that travels as fast as light travels. Think of it, my Prince!"

"It is, indeed, wonderful," the younger man agreed. "But it seems to me, my dear Admiral, that, if what you tell me is true, there is in the world at this moment something more wonderful still—a force which even you do not understand."

"You are right," agreed the older man, gravely. "But we must understand it—we must control it. It means world-empire!"

Both their faces were set and serious, and they spoke almost in whispers, with a glance from time to time to make sure no one was near, or a lapse into silence when any one approached.

"If we succeed," the younger man began; but the other grasped him by the arm.

"There must be no 'if,'" he protested. "Do not permit yourself to use that word. There must be no failure! Think, for a moment, of the tremendous issues which hang upon it! And, after all, the game is in our hands."

"I have not yet met the inventor," said the younger man; "but from what you have told me, I fear he is an enthusiast who will make difficulties. However, as you say, we must succeed at any price."

"Yes; at any price!" and as he uttered the words, the Admiral glanced searchingly at his companion's face. But the other was gazing out across the water, and did not seem to notice the other's peculiar emphasis.

Again they sat silent as three or four persons, passing, paused to peer in at the window of the wireless-house.

"Are you sure the French do not suspect?" asked the younger man, when they had gone.

"How could they?"

"The inventor must have left some trace—that wireless station in the grove."

"A small affair, well hidden. Even if it is discovered, it cannot possibly be connected with the disaster."

"Perhaps not. But the other installation?"

"The other installation was brought away by the inventor. He left nothing behind except some batteries, which can betray no secret."

"And he has the mechanism with him now?"

"Yes—in his baggage. You see how complete our power is."

"I see," nodded the other briefly. "You have arranged a conference with him?"

"I will do so. There is plenty of time."

"Why do we go to America?"

"It is a whim of his—that this great treaty should be signed there. We had to humour him, or he might have grown suspicious. I think he is a little mad."

Again there was a moment's silence. Then the older man threw away his cigarette and rose.

"The wireless man is an old protege of mine," he said. "I spent a very pleasant hour with him last night. If you do not object, I will go in again to see him."

The other nodded, and Pachmann opened the door of the wireless-house and disappeared inside. His companion lighted another cigarette and smoked it gloomily, as his thoughts reverted to his own affairs. It was flattering, of course, that he should have been selected to accompany Pachmann on this mission; but, nevertheless, he regretted Berlin—or, rather, he regretted a certain blue-eyed, flaxen-haired girl, with a figure like Juno's.... Confound it! It was only to separate him from her that he had been sent with Pachmann! Why couldn't his father leave him alone! He was old enough to manage his own affairs! And besides....

The door of the wireless-house opened and Pachmann appeared. Very quietly he closed the door, very quietly he sat down beside his companion. And then he mopped a shining forehead with a hand that trembled visibly, and the younger man saw with astonishment that his face was livid.

"What is it? What has happened?" he asked.

Pachmann tried twice before he found his voice. When he did speak, it was in a hoarse whisper.

"I was wrong," he said. "France does suspect!"



CHAPTER XIV

THE MESSAGE

A little group of laughing young women came scurrying up the ladder from the promenade, and the Admiral and his companion sat stonily silent until they had passed. Then the Admiral spoke again, still in a whisper, but his voice was under control.

"The most astounding thing has happened," he said. "I cannot understand it. The operator in there has just received a message from Cherbourg, asking if there is not on board, in stateroom 514, a man named Ignace Vard, accompanied by his daughter. It is signed by Lepine, chief of the French secret service."

The younger man drew a quick, sibilant breath, and his face, too, turned pale beneath the tan.

"But how could he know?" he gasped. "How could he suspect?"

"Lepine is the very devil!" growled the other. "Perhaps it was that wireless installation, as you suggested."

"But that could not betray the man's name—the boat—even his stateroom!"

"No; I cannot understand it," and Pachmann mopped his face again. Then he thrust his handkerchief back into his pocket and sprang to his feet. "However it occurred, we must stop it," he said. "Come."

"Stop it—but how?"

"There is only one way. Come!"

The Admiral hurried down the ladder, his companion at his heels. From the upper promenade he descended to the deck below, and then, without hesitating, climbed another ladder and stepped over a low gate which gave entrance to the first-class promenade. The gate, it is true, bore a sign stating that second-class passengers must not pass it; but Pachmann did not even glance at it. He seemed to know the ship, for he pressed on, disregarding the curious glances cast at himself and his companion, mounted again to the boat-deck, and did not pause until he had reached its extreme forward end, just under the bridge. There he stopped at a door just abaft the ladder leading to the bridge and knocked sharply.

"Enter!" cried a voice, and the younger man, following the Admiral, found himself in a large and handsome stateroom, whose windows looked straight forward over the bow. At the desk a bearded man of middle-age was glancing through some papers. He looked up at the intruders with evident astonishment. "Really, gentlemen," he began, and then he stopped, his gaze shifting from one face to the other and back again in frank bewilderment.

"Captain Hausmann," said the Admiral, stepping forward, "probably you do not remember me, since we have met but once. But I think you know the Prince."

Captain Hausmann's eyes widened, and he sprang quickly to his feet, his hand at the visor of his cap.

"Your Highness," he began, but the Prince stopped him.

"I am not a Highness at present, Captain," he said, laughing; "only a humble passenger of the second class. I am very glad to see you again," and, holding out his hand, he gave that of the astonished mariner a hearty clasp.

"A passenger of the second class!" stammered the Captain. "But I do not understand!"

"It is not necessary that you should," said the Admiral, curtly, and at the words, the Captain reddened a little.

"Ah, now I know you," he said, quietly. "Admiral Pachmann," and again he saluted.

"Yes," said the Admiral, acknowledging the salute. "We had not intended to betray, even to you, our presence on board, but an unforeseen circumstance has made it necessary. No one else, of course, must suspect it. All that you need to know—indeed, all that we are permitted to tell you—is that His Highness and myself are at this moment engaged upon an affair of state of the first importance. Here are my credentials."

He took from an inner pocket a long leather pocket-book, extracted from it a heavy envelope sealed with a great black seal, and passed it to the Captain.

The latter took it, glanced at the seal and hesitated, for it bore the Imperial crown.

"Do you intend that I should open this?" he asked.

"I wish you to do so," answered Pachmann.

With fingers that trembled a little, the Captain loosened the seal, lifted the flap, and drew out the sheet of paper which lay within. It was an ivory-finished white, almost as stiff as a card, the entire upper left quarter occupied by the Imperial crown and monogram, the other three quarters covered by writing in a large and rather stiff hand, with a scrawling signature at the bottom. The Captain glanced at this signature, then, his face very grave, read the missive slowly and carefully. Finally he returned the sheet to its envelope, and handed it back to Pachmann, his eyes meeting the Admiral's with a kind of awed wonder.

"I am at your service," he said. "Will you...."

There was a tap at the door. The Captain went to it and opened it, standing so that his body filled the doorway. He exchanged a word with some one, and then closed the door and turned back into the room, a sheaf of papers in his hand.

"Will you not sit down?" he asked.

"We shall be but a moment," said Pachmann. "That was the wireless man, was it not?"

"Yes."

"Among the messages you have in your hand is one from Lepine, Prefect of the Paris Service du Surete. He asks whether you have aboard in stateroom 514 a man named Ignace Vard, accompanied by his daughter."

Captain Hausmann, with an admirable composure, glanced through the messages.

"Yes; here it is," he said.

"I will dictate the answer," said the Admiral.

Without a word, the Captain sat down again at his desk and wrote to Pachmann's dictation:

"Lepine, Paris.

"No record of Ignace Vard and daughter on Ottilie. Stateroom 514 unoccupied.

"HAUSMANN, Captain."

"It would be well to have the message sent at once," added Pachmann. "You will also see that the name of Vard and his daughter do not appear on your passenger list, and that they are moved from the stateroom they now occupy to some other one. The records for the voyage must show that that room was indeed unoccupied. You will also instruct the purser that the tickets surrendered by Vard and his daughter are not to be turned in, but, in case of inquiry, to be reported unused."

The Captain had listened carefully.

"On what pretext will I move these people?" he asked.

"The pretext must be found."

The Captain stroked his beard with a troubled air.

"I fear there is no second-cabin room empty—we are very crowded. Would it matter if I brought them forward?"

Pachmann pondered a moment.

"No," he said at last. "On the whole, that might be better. You will enter them on your passenger list by some other name—or, better still, omit them altogether."

"But the immigration authorities!" protested the Captain. "You have forgotten them!"

"We will think of them at the proper time," said Pachmann, impatiently. "This is not the moment to make objections. I think you understand?"

Hausmann bowed.

"We will say good-bye, then, for the present," added the Admiral, with a touch of irony. "We shall, perhaps, be forced again to call upon you."

A second time Hausmann bowed.

* * * * *

When Miss Vard entered her stateroom, that day, to brush her hair before going to lunch, her nostrils were assaulted by a most unpleasant odour, and, when a cursory inspection of the room failed to disclose its cause, she summoned the steward and asked him to investigate. An hour later, a white-capped official approached Mr. Vard, who was looking vainly through the collection of books in the library for something he cared to read, and informed him, with many apologies, that it would be necessary for him to change his stateroom. Just what was wrong with No. 514 it was impossible to say; but it could not be denied that there was a bad odour there, whose source had not been discovered, and the only alternative seemed to be to shut it up until the end of the voyage and then to overhaul it thoroughly.

"Very well," said Vard. "I have no objection to changing. But I cannot understand how a cubicle with floor, ceiling and walls of steel, could so suddenly become insanitary."

"It is a mystery to us also, sir, and one which we shall look into very thoroughly. We regret it extremely."

"Not at all," said Vard, somewhat astonished that so much should be made of the matter. "Have the steward change our baggage to the new quarters, and then come and show me where they are, and let us forget all about it."

"It is most kind of you to take it so good-naturedly," protested the officer. "The embarrassing thing to us is that, as there is no vacant stateroom in the second-cabin, we shall have to transfer you to the first."

Vard looked at him.

"And you expect me to pay the difference?" he asked.

"Oh, no; not at all," the other hastily assured him. "We had not thought of such a thing! But we feared you might have some objection to first-class, and that the change would inconvenience you still more."

Vard smiled grimly.

"As a matter of fact, I have an objection to first-class," he said, "but it is largely that of wasting money for which I have a better use. The people one sees there also do not appeal to me. I fear most of them are idle fools. But perhaps the library is better selected."

"Oh, it is much larger than this!" the officer agreed. "I may take it, then, that you consent?"

"Certainly. We can't stay in a stateroom that smells as ours does."

"Then," said the other, "if you will inform your daughter, I will myself conduct you to your new quarters."

So Miss Vard was summoned, their steward was loaded with the baggage, and after a glance around No. 514 to assure herself that nothing had been overlooked, Miss Vard found herself following her father and the white-capped German along a narrow passage, past a steel door that was unlocked for them, and up the companion-way to a very handsome suite opening on the upper promenade. It consisted of two bedrooms and a sitting-room, and Kasia, as she glanced about it, could not repress an exclamation of surprise.

"Are we to stay here?" she asked.

"Yes, Madame," and the official smiled. "It is the only thing we have to offer. I am glad that it pleases you. It will help you to forget the inconvenience of changing," and, having waited until the steward had deposited his burden, he motioned him out before him, bowed and withdrew.

Kasia made a quick tour of the room, admiring its elegant furnishings, glanced into the bedrooms, and then came back to her father.

"I don't understand it!" she said. "Why should they give us all this?"

Her father regarded her in some surprise.

"Why, my dear," he said, "you have heard the explanation. I do not for a moment imagine that the steamship company would have been so generous if there had been any way to avoid it!"

"No, I suppose not!" Kasia agreed, and set herself to arrange their belongings—it was almost like fitting up a flat! "This suit-case is very heavy, father," she added, after a moment. "Will you put it in your room?"

"Of course," and Vard lifted it, started for the bedroom, and then turned and placed it on the little table which stood between the windows. "I will have a look at it, first," he said, loosened the straps, took a key from a flapped compartment of his pocket-book and put it in the lock. "One would scarcely believe, Kasia," he added, with a smile, "that this little bag contains the destiny of the world!"

"No," she said, and came and stood beside him, one arm about him, her head against his shoulder.

He turned the key and raised the lid. Then he put aside some articles of clothing and lifted from beneath them an oblong box, open at the ends. One saw, on looking closer, that the sides of the box were of glass, partially covered on both sides with tin-foil; and peering in at the open end, one perceived a vague maze of wires and pinions.

Vard gazed at it for some moments without speaking.

"There it is, Kasia," he said, at last, "the wonder-worker, which, properly tuned and connected with its batteries, generates a force which puts an end to armies and to fleets. With it in the world, there can be no more war—and if there is no more war, there is the end of kings and tyrants. It is a great thought, is it not, my daughter?"

"A great thought!" she echoed, but her voice was shaking, and she shivered a little and drew closer to him. "And yet, father, think what an awful force it would be if it fell into unscrupulous hands! It is that which makes me tremble sometimes!"

"You do not fear me, Kasia?" he asked reproachfully.

"No, father; of course not!"

He replaced the mechanism, covered it carefully with clothing, closed the lid, locked it, and returned the key to his pocket. Then he carried the bag to his bedroom and slipped it under the bed. At last he came back to his daughter.

"I will not deny, Kasia," he said, "that I have been tempted, more than once. Not by the prospect of wealth or power—those cannot tempt me; but by the thought that, after subduing the world, I might 're-mould it nearer to the heart's desire.' And yet how vain to fancy that I or any man possesses the wisdom to do that! No; that cannot be. Each nation must shape its own destiny, as friends and brothers. It is for me to strike the swords from their hands!"

But still Kasia trembled and a shadow lay across her face.

"What is it you fear?" her father asked, looking at her.

"It seems too great a destiny!" she answered, with quivering lips. "There is so great a risk! Suppose some one should steal that instrument...."

"That would do no harm. I can make another—a hundred others! That is my purpose. The whole world must know of it—must possess it. Every nation must know that, the instant it marches to war, it risks annihilation. I see no danger there."

"But suppose," Kasia persisted, "that the man who stole it should kill you—what then? Oh, I have thought of it, father, so much, so closely, all through the night! We must run no risk like that."

Vard took a rapid turn up and down the room. He was deeply perturbed. At last he paused beside her.

"You are right, Kasia," he said. "I do not believe there is any danger—and yet we must run no risk like that! Well, it is easy to avoid it! Wait!"

He disappeared into his bedroom, and Kasia heard him pulling out the bag and opening it. Then the lock snapped again, the bag was pushed back under the bed, and her father rejoined her. He held in his hand a little case of polished steel. Within it were three filament-like wires wound peculiarly around a series of tiny pins.

"Here it is," he said, "the very heart of the mechanism. Without this it is useless. Without this, it is merely a transformer. It can do no one any harm—can betray no secret."

Kasia took the little box and looked at it.

"Is this difficult to make, father?" she asked.

"It took me eight years to make that one; but I can make another in two days, or perhaps three."

"You are sure of that?"

"Oh, yes," and he smiled. "It is very intricate, yet very simple when one has the clue. Every convolution of those filaments is photographed on my brain. I can close my eyes and see them winding in and out."

The girl hesitated, the little box still in her hand.

"Then it would be safe to destroy this?" she asked, at last.

"Safe? Yes! That is my meaning! Let us destroy it!"

Still a moment she paused, then she closed her hand.

"Yes," she agreed; "let us destroy it."

Her father nodded his head indifferently. With him the moment of tension had passed.

"Drop it into the sea," he said. "That will end it. Now, I think, I shall go and examine the books in the library."

He went out and closed the door; but Kasia stood for a long time without moving, staring at the little box of polished metal. After all, if he could not reproduce it; if there should be some convolution he had missed, some accidental conjunction he was not aware of! If to destroy it now would be to destroy it forever! Better that, of course, than run the other risk! But was there no other way? Perhaps, perhaps....



CHAPTER XV

A WORD OF WARNING

Wherefore it happened that Dan Webster, searching promenade and saloon and library, that afternoon, mounting to the boat-deck, descending to the lower deck, peeping into every nook and corner where passengers of the second-class were permitted to penetrate, looked in vain for Kasia Vard. Nor was her father anywhere to be seen. At last, perceiving the curious glances shot in his direction, and having stumbled for the third time over the same outstretched pair of feet, he mounted gloomily to the boat-deck and sat down to think it out.

The weather continued fine and the sea smooth, so that it was absurd to suppose that either of them was ill; and that they should keep to their stateroom on such an afternoon for any other reason, or even for that one, was more absurd still. Perhaps, if they were working....

The thought brought him sudden relief. That explained it! They had some work they were doing together. Perhaps Kasia acted as her father's secretary, and even now was writing to his dictation. She had said that he was engaged in some gigantic project, the nature of which Dan understood but dimly—a plan for the disarmament of the world, or something like that. As he remembered them here in the cold light of day, her words of the night before seemed more than a little fantastic; but perhaps he had not understood, or perhaps she had spoken figuratively. "The nations of the world in the hollow of his hand"—that, of course, was figurative. And, equally of course, Vard's plan would come to nothing. But it would be interesting to know more of it.

He must have a talk with Vard before the voyage ended. A story like that would make good copy, and a little newspaper propaganda would help the thing along. Meanwhile, there was nothing to do but wait until Miss Vard should choose to reappear. He cast his mind back over the story she had told him—ye gods! what a feature that would make, told just as she had told it, simply and earnestly and without embellishment. Perhaps he could persuade her to write it for the Record. He could picture the shining face of Craftsman, the Sunday editor, as he read it!

Some one, crossing the deck unperceived by him, sat down beside him. He turned quickly; but it was only Chevrial.

"Ah, M. Webster," said the Frenchman, smiling, "you were among the day dreams; and they were not of me. That is apparent from the look with which you regard me!"

Dan flushed a little, and then he laughed. There was no resisting Chevrial's genial humour.

"No," he admitted; "they were of some one quite different."

"Nevertheless, until that 'some one' appears, I trust that I am welcome?"

"Indeed you are. I'm glad you came!"

Dan spoke warmly, and his companion, with a little satisfied nod, settled back into the seat. They had seen very little of each other since the moment of meeting. Dan had gone to bed the previous night before his roommate appeared, and had not even heard him come in. This morning, when he arose, Chevrial was sleeping calmly, and Dan had gathered his clothes together as noiselessly as he could and stolen away to the bathroom. They had passed each other once or twice on the promenade, and had nodded but had not spoken—and then Dan remembered suddenly the flare of light from the near-by bench the night before, as he and Kasia rose to go below. Chevrial smiled again as he met his glance.

"You are thinking of last night?" he said. "Yes? It is concerning that I wish first to speak to you. When I sat down yonder I was not conscious that this bench was occupied. You and the young lady were speaking in very low tones, and the bench itself was in shadow. It was only when she raised her voice that I realised I was hearing what was not intended for me. I was just about to go, when she stopped abruptly, and a moment later you went down together. It was then that you noticed me. I struck the match in order that you might see that it was I, and so have no uneasiness."

Dan stared at his companion in astonishment.

"Uneasiness?" he repeated. "But why should I have any uneasiness?"

"Not on your own account, of course, but on the young lady's account."

"But I don't see why, even for her, I should be uneasy," said Dan perplexedly.

"My dear sir," and Chevrial dropped his voice and spoke very earnestly, "there are always spies on these big boats—this is a most productive field for them—German spies, French spies, English spies, listening to each word, watching each gesture. Suppose one of them had chanced to hear what I did...."

Dan stared a moment longer, then he burst into a laugh.

"Oh, come, M. Chevrial," he protested. "You don't really believe that!"

"Believe what?"

"About the spies."

Chevrial's face grew a little grim.

"I am not one to offer advice where it is not desired," he said; "but I assure you, M. Webster, that what I have told you is true, and furthermore had any one of three or four persons who are on this boat heard what I heard, that girl and her father would have been under espionage for the remainder of their lives."

It was easy to see that Chevrial spoke in deadly earnest, and, in spite of himself, Dan was impressed and sobered.

"I beg your pardon," he said; "perhaps you are right; but to an American the very idea of such a system is laughable—it savours too much of cheap melodrama. But why should the story Miss Vard told me interest any one?"

"My dear sir," answered Chevrial, drily, "when a girl goes about boasting that her father is more powerful than the Czar or Kaiser! Suppose she had stopped there, any hearer would have concluded that he was an anarchist, and therefore to be watched. But she went further: she asserted that he can blow up forts and destroy armies! That he can wreck battleships! Why, M. Webster, it is only four days since La Liberte, the greatest of French battleships, was destroyed in the harbour of Toulon by an agency not yet determined!"

Dan had turned a little pale.

"But you don't imagine," he stammered; "surely you don't think...."

Chevrial flipped away his cigarette-ash negligently.

"That La Liberte was destroyed by this man? Absurd! But, nevertheless, it is a bad time to make such boasts."

"I can see that," agreed Dan. "I will speak to Miss Vard."

"I would do so, by all means. She seems a most interesting girl, and I should regret to see her involved in an unpleasant situation. Or her father," Chevrial added. "A most interesting enthusiast!"

"You have talked with him?"

"Oh, yes; last night for some time. He has great ideas—too great, I fear, to be practicable."

"Then you don't believe...."

"That he can destroy armies and all that?" and Chevrial laughed lightly. "My dear M. Webster, do you?"

"No," said Dan, slowly, "I don't suppose I do. It's too much to believe—without proof!"

"Assuredly," agreed his companion; "no one would believe it without proof—absolute proof." Then he leaned closer. "To me he made no such absurd claim, but from the way he talked—from his grandiose ideas, his strange philosophy, his fabulous hopes for humanity—I formed the opinion that the man is mad—not wholly mad, you understand, but touched, in one corner of the brain, by a wild hallucination. His daughter, naturally, believes in him. She is a most attractive girl. Polish women are always attractive, at least when they are young. There is, in their faces, in their eyes, an appearance of tragedy, of mystery, which piques the imagination. And they are all great patriots—it is born in the blood—oh, far greater patriots than the men. I have travelled in Poland," he added, seeing Dan's glance; "my business sometimes calls me there."

"And is there really such oppression as Miss Vard described?"

"I do not know what she told you—it was only at the end she raised her voice; but she could not exaggerate the sufferings of her people. They are little better than slaves. All careers are closed to them, and over them constantly is the shadow of Siberia."

"You mean they are banished sometimes?"

"They are banished often—for one year, two years, three years. And they are compelled to walk to and from the place of banishment. It takes a year sometimes. I knew a man who returned home one day to find a Cossack attacking his daughter. There was a struggle, and the Cossack shot the man in the leg. The wound festered and the leg was amputated; then the man was sentenced to the mines at Yakutsk. It was I know not how many thousand miles—it took him two years to walk there on his wooden leg—walking, walking every day."

Dan felt a strange weakness running through his veins.

"But is there no way to put an end to such things?" he asked.

Chevrial rolled himself another cigarette.

"Poland has no friends," he answered. "She has been forgotten. The Poles themselves have come to be regarded as fools, as charlatans, as irresponsible children. France was supposed to be the friend of Poland; Napoleon promised to reconstitute her, and the Poles fought by thousands in his armies and won many victories for him. Then came the campaign of Russia and ended all that. To-day, Poland is remembered in France only by a proverb, 'Saoul comme un Polonais,' 'Drunk as a Pole.' It is so we think of them, when we think of them at all, which is not often. This disdain, this forgetfulness, has been carefully fostered by Germany and Russia. No one thinks it worth while to interfere. Besides, Poland's lot is that of every conquered country. In Alsace-Lorraine it is just the same."

"Oh, surely not!" Dan protested. "Germany, at least, has no Siberia!"

"No, she has no Siberia," Chevrial agreed, "but neither has she a sense of humour, and that is worse! The very worst trait in a conqueror, M. Webster, believe me, is an absence of the sense of humour! And Germany has the strongest prisons in the world. Her system of espial is even more minute and irritating than that of Russia. As in Poland, the people of Alsace and Lorraine may not speak their native tongue nor study the history of their fatherland. Nothing escapes suspicion. It is reported that at a certain cafe the accounts are kept in French; the cafe is thereupon visited, the books confiscated, and a fine imposed. A certain gentleman goes to Nancy on the fourteenth of July, which happens to be the date of the French national fete; he is reported as suspect and his premises are visited and searched. The police, passing the house of a notary one evening, hear some one singing the Marseillaise; they demand admittance and arrest the notary, although it was a phonograph which had been singing the song. This is adjudged a very serious case."

"Do you mean to tell me," Dan demanded, "that such things actually occur?"

The ghost of a smile flitted across Chevrial's lips.

"Not those precise cases, perhaps," he said; "but cases very like them—cases not a whit less ridiculous. And can you wonder that Germany finds Alsace and Lorraine restless? Do you wonder that our hearts ache for our compatriots? Do you wonder that we dream of the day when we may remove those mourning wreaths from the statue of Strasbourg in the Place de la Concord?"

He fell silent a moment, then shrugged his shoulders resignedly.

"But I grow too serious," he continued. "Perhaps, some day, Poland will be freed, Alsace-Lorraine returned to France; yes," and here he glanced at Dan with a dry smile, "and the people of the Philippines given their independence. Indeed, this M. Vard believes that day to be close at hand. Let us hope so. Which reminds me that I have to-day seen neither him nor his daughter."

"Nor have I," Dan admitted. "I thought perhaps they had some work to do, and so had not come on deck."

"They may be there now," said Chevrial, and led the way to the forward end of the boat-deck, where, leaning against the rail, they could look down upon the promenade below.

Every one was on deck, walking up and down, revelling in the fresh air, with its tang of salt, and in the soft sunshine; but, though Dan and Chevrial stood for some time looking down, neither Miss Vard nor her father passed. Then Chevrial, whose attention had wandered, uttered a little exclamation, and caught Dan by the arm.

"See there!" he said.

He was pointing forward to the first-class promenade, which was also crowded, and Dan, following the direction of his gesture, saw, amid the crowd, a white-haired man and dark-haired girl walking side by side, deep in talk. He looked again, scarcely able to believe his eyes; but there was no mistaking them—they were Miss Vard and her father.

He drew a deep breath of wonder and perplexity. How came they among the first-class passengers? But perhaps they had merely been to see the purser, and were now on their way back. No; they had passed the gangway. In another moment, they turned back along the other side of the promenade and were lost to sight.

Only then did Dan look up. He found Chevrial smiling sardonically.

"But what does it mean?" he asked.

Chevrial pursed his lips.

"I do not know," he answered, with a little shrug, "unless some one beside myself heard Miss Vard's story, last night, and has caused her to be placed where she may be more easily kept under surveillance. Oh, there was some story trumped up, depend upon it, so that she would not suspect. No doubt she will also be given the opportunity to make certain friends among her new shipmates, in whom she may also confide. It will be delicately done; oh, so delicately!"

It might have occurred to Dan that M. Chevrial seemed, for a wine-merchant, surprisingly familiar with affairs of state and the methods of the secret service; but, for the moment, his whole mind was concentrated on Miss Vard's danger.

"I must warn her," he breathed.

"I believe it would be wise," said Chevrial, in the same tone. "She should make friends with no one—confide in no one. Her position is very serious." And then, as Dan started from the rail, he caught his arm. "Not now," he said. "Wait until to-night. It would be too apparent if you were to rush up there in open day. And before you do speak, make sure that there is no one within twenty feet of you—and then speak in a whisper!"

"Thank you," said Dan; "you are right, of course." And he went slowly back to the bench.



CHAPTER XVI

A CHARGE TO KEEP

When Dan Webster took his seat at the dinner table, that evening, he found a printed copy of the passenger-list beside his plate, and his neighbours were a-flutter with the excitement of seeing their names in type. Dan, turning to the letter V, found that the names of Ignace Vard and his daughter were not there. Doubtless the change from second-class to first was responsible for the omission, and yet, at the back of his mind was a vague feeling of uneasiness which he was wholly unable to explain. Chevrial had impressed him, and yet one objection to that gentleman's misgivings seemed to him unanswerable: if the Vards had been changed from second-class to first with any ulterior object, the authorities in charge of the ship must be in the plot, and that was manifestly absurd.

Yet his determination to seek Miss Vard at the first moment and advise her to be cautious did not waver. He knew, from the printed announcements of the company, that the first-cabin dinner was not a table-d'hote served at a fixed hour, as in the second-cabin, but an a la carte meal, served from six to nine, as at a fashionable restaurant; so he loitered restlessly about for half an hour after he left the table; then, deciding that he had waited long enough, he approached the ladder which led to the first-class promenade. But a uniformed figure which stood at the foot of the ladder stopped him.

"Beg pardon, sir," it said, "are you first-class?"

"No; I am second."

"Did you wish to see the purser or some officer of the ship?"

"No; I wished to see one of the passengers."

"In that case, I fear I cannot let you pass, sir. It is against the rules."

"Oh, is it?" said Dan, all his suspicions revived with double force, and he bit his lip in perplexity.

"I am sorry, sir; but I am here to enforce the rules."

"Oh, I understand," said Dan.

"You might get your stateroom steward to take a message," the man suggested.

"But I want to see the person."

"The person can come to you. There is no rule against first-class visiting second. First-class has the run of the ship."

"I see," said Dan. "Thank you," and he went away to think it over.

Mechanically he threaded his way through the crowd on the promenade, climbed up to the boat-deck, and sat down on the well-remembered bench. Some of the others were occupied, but this one was empty; perhaps the others were becoming as dear to other people as this one was to him! He got out his pipe, lighted it, pulled his cap over his eyes, thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and began to think.

He could, of course, write Miss Vard a brief warning; but what assurance had he that it would be delivered to her, at least without being opened? If Chevrial was right, if she was really under espionage, any communication addressed to her would certainly be inspected. Even to write merely asking her to meet him would arouse suspicion. There was only one way—he must watch for a chance to steal forward into first-class when no one was looking.

He considered the possible ways of doing this. In the morning, he knew, the folding gate which divided the lower promenade into first and second class was always swung back while the deck was being washed down. It would be easy to pass then; but, he reflected, in the daytime he had never noticed that a guard was stationed at the ladder leading to the upper promenade. Perhaps it was only at night that the prohibition was in force—at night, when the women of the first-cabin had their diamonds on! There must, of course, be some police supervision of the ship; each class must be kept to its own quarters, or, at least, prevented from wandering into quarters higher up. But, just the same, he must get past!

He rose, and, walking to the forward rail, looked across at the other deck. A space of perhaps thirty feet separated it from the one on which he stood. Then he looked down. The man on guard was pacing slowly back and forth, his hands behind him; but suddenly he quickened his step, for two men had approached the foot of the ladder. The guard stopped them with the same formula he had used with Dan.

"Beg pardon, gentlemen," he said, "are you first-class?"

"No; we are second-class," answered one of the men.

"Have you business with the purser or any officer of the ship?"

There was a moment's hesitation.

"Why do you ask?" queried one of the men.

"It is forbidden to pass otherwise."

Again there was a moment's hesitation, and Dan strained his ears to catch the reply.

"We have business with the Commander," said one of the men at last, in a low tone.

The guard was obviously surprised.

"The Commander is very busy," he said, deprecatingly. "Perhaps to-morrow will do."

"To-morrow will not do," was the curt answer.

"I must, at least, announce you," said the guard. "May I have your card?"

A card was produced and handed to him. Without looking at it, he blew a sharp blast on a little whistle which hung about his neck. In a moment another man in uniform appeared at the head of the ladder. The guard mounted and handed him the card.

"For the Captain," he said, and came down again. "I regret that I must detain you, gentlemen," he added, "but I must obey the regulations."

"Certainly," agreed one of the men, and they stepped a little apart and stood talking together in low tones. But almost immediately the messenger appeared again at the top of the ladder.

"The Captain will receive you, gentlemen," he said, and swung open the gate and waited for them to pass. Then he closed the gate and hurried after them. Dan could see them going along the upper promenade; then they passed from sight.

The guard had stared after them as they climbed the ladder, and he stood staring for some little time after they had gone. Plainly he was much astonished. But at last, with a shake of the head, he turned away and resumed his walk.

Dan was about to turn away, too, when another incident attracted his attention. A barefooted sailor in white duck, coming from the stern of the ship, climbed to the rail, tested the rope holding the canvas windshield, and then, as the guard turned away, grasped a stanchion of the railing above his head and drew himself up quickly to the first promenade. Dan, looking after him, saw him run rapidly up the ladder to the forward boat-deck and disappear behind a life-boat.

That was a way, certainly, to evade the guard. Dan measured the distance from the rail to the upper deck, and wondered if he could pull himself up as quickly as the sailor had. He would have to be quick, or the guard would see him. And it was quite an athletic feat. Besides, he would be handicapped by his shoes; he might easily slip off the rail and over the side. No, that road was too dangerous, except as a last resort. Besides, if he were caught, it would be very awkward.

He returned to his bench and sat down again. After all, was there really any reason why he should warn Miss Vard? The whole thing was, most probably, nothing but a bit of rhodomontade on Chevrial's part. And who was Chevrial, anyway? How did it happen that he was so familiar with spies and secret services and systems of espionage? A most peculiar wine-merchant. Perhaps he was not a wine-merchant; perhaps....

"A penny for your thoughts, Mr. Webster," said a low voice, and some one sat down beside him.

He turned with a violent start.

"Kasia!" he cried, and then stopped, stammering. "I beg your pardon, Miss Vard," he said, also lowering his voice. "You startled me so!"

As she met his glance, he saw how bright her eyes were. She had thrown a wrap about her and drawn the hood over her head. Against it, her face looked very white.

"I think you may call me Kasia," she said softly. "You see, I need a friend, and I should hate to have a friend call me anything else. No," she added, as he started to say something, "I shall continue to call you Mr. Webster—that is not quite the same thing. And I am sorry I startled you."

"It was because I was thinking of you. I have been thinking of you all day. I tried to go to you, just now. I had something to tell you. But the guard at the ladder stopped me."

He looked around to make sure that there was no one near.

"He didn't stop me," she said.

"No; first-class passengers have the run of the ship. How does it happen that you are first-class, Kasia?"

It was the first time that he had used the word with intention, and his voice trembled a little over it.

She told him rapidly of the odour which had suddenly developed in her former stateroom, and how the ship's people had finally been compelled to transfer her and her father to the first-cabin.

"Oh, to quite sumptuous quarters," she went on; "you should see them. Two bedrooms and a sitting-room and bath—an imperial suite. There are no places left at the tables, so our meals are served in our sitting-room, as though we were royalties. I'm afraid our tips will have to be something enormous! I can't but feel that the steamship company is getting very much the worst of it. Both father and I offered to continue eating second-class, but the Captain wouldn't hear of it. He seems to think, poor man, that the odour has disgraced his boat. He was quite humble about it!"

Dan breathed a deep sigh of relief.

"I'm glad it's so simple," he said. "I had begun to imagine all sorts of things. Last night, when we were talking here, it happened that my roommate, a fellow named Chevrial, was sitting on that bench yonder, and overheard a little of our talk. He was quite solemn with me this afternoon about it."

"In what way?" asked Kasia, quickly.

"He said there are always spies on board these big boats, and that you oughtn't to go around talking about blowing up battleships—not at this time, anyway, since it is only three or four days since a French ship was blown up."

He could hear the startled breath she drew, and the hand she laid on his sleeve was trembling.

"Did he say that?" she gasped. "But he doesn't suspect—"

"That your father blew up La Liberte?" laughed Dan. "Of course not. He said that was absurd. But, just the same, he thought it unwise to talk about it."

"He is right," Kasia agreed. "What else did he say?"

"He seemed to think your being moved to first-class was part of a plot of some kind, and thought you ought to be warned not to make any acquaintances or confide in any one. But of course that was just his imagination. If the Captain himself moved you why that settles it. He wouldn't be concerned in any plot. The whole thing, anyway, sounds like a bit of ten-twenty-thirty. I told Chevrial so."

"Who is this Chevrial?" asked Miss Vard.

"I don't know. He told me he was a dealer in wine. He seems to have travelled a lot, and he is certainly a well-educated fellow, and one of the best talkers I ever met. A Frenchman all through, from the way he got worked up over Alsace-Lorraine. He said it was as bad as Poland. But I suspect he was letting his Gallic imagination run away with him when he got on the subject of spies."

"I am not so sure of that," she said, and fell silent for a moment. "I have seen more of spies than have you, Mr. Webster—I know how Europe is honeycombed with them. At any rate, it can do no harm to follow his advice. Please make sure that there is no one near us. I have something most important to say to you."

Dan glanced at her in surprise; then he got up, looked behind the boat in whose shadow the bench stood, and made a careful survey of their surroundings. Then he sat down again.

"There is no one near," he assured her.

"Mr. Webster," she began, leaning so close that a tendril of her hair brushed his cheek, and speaking in a voice that was almost a whisper, "I told you that I had need of a friend. It is a desperate need. I may rely upon you, may I not?"

For answer, he sought her hand, found it and held it fast. It was very cold.

"I was sure of it," she said, and her fingers closed upon his. "I knew, in my first glance at you, that you were to be counted on."

Dan's heart was glowing and he could not trust himself to speak.

"My need is this," she went on rapidly, as though, having nerved herself to speak, she must hurry through with it before her resolution failed. "My father has perfected an invention—oh, a great invention—which he fears some one may try to steal from him. He has many enemies who would stop at nothing to gain possession of it. Even on this boat, perhaps, there are some of them—he does not know; there is no way that he can tell; but he is very anxious. For eight years he laboured at this invention, and at last it is finished. But if some one should steal his model, all this would be for nothing—for worse than nothing. It is not a money loss he fears—this invention will not bring him money—but his whole life would be wrecked—all his plans, all his hopes. To-day he agreed with me that this model should be destroyed; he put it in my hand and he expected me to drop it into the sea. But I was afraid to do that; perhaps he could not make another. It is so complicated, so delicate, perhaps he would go wrong. So I thought and thought—I thought if I had a friend whom I could trust absolutely, whom no one would suspect of possessing it, I might entrust it to him...."

Dan's pressure on her hand grew stronger.

"Give it to me," he said.

Kasia gazed into his eyes for a moment, as though reading his very soul; then her other hand came forward under her cloak and touched his. He felt that it held a package; and he took it quickly and slipped it into the pocket of his coat.

"Now it is safe," he said. "You are not to worry about it any more."

She breathed a deep sigh of relief.

"But you must make me two promises," she said.

"What are they?"

"You must permit no one, under any circumstances, to open that package."

"I promise."

"Rather than do that, rather than permit any one to see it, you must destroy it—throw it overboard, stamp upon it—destroy it in some way."

"I promise."

"No matter who may be trying to get it—the Captain of this ship, an officer of the police—it must make no difference."

"I promise."

She leaned back against the seat, suddenly relaxed as from a great strain, and closed her eyes. But she did not draw her hand away. Then she opened her eyes and looked at him, and her lips were quivering. An immense longing to take her in his arms, to stoop and kiss those lips, to hold her close to him, rushed through the man's veins. But he held himself back. To do that would be base; to do that would be asking payment! He could not do that. But sometime, sometime....

She saw the change in his face, sat for an instant very still, then drew her hand away, got out her handkerchief and passed it across her eyes.

"Now we can talk," she said, in another tone. "You may choose the subject."

Dan pulled himself together.

"Oh, any subject will do," he laughed. "Ships or shoes or sealing-wax—just so you do the talking."

And he got out his pipe and filled it with trembling fingers. He was absurdly happy.



CHAPTER XVII

THE FIRST CONFERENCE

In the Captain's cabin, meanwhile, another conference was going forward, and one of a very different character from that on the after boat-deck. The curtains had been carefully drawn, and three men sat facing each other. They were Ignace Vard, Pachmann, and the young man whom he addressed habitually as "Prince." Vard was on the divan in the corner of the room, the others lounged in two luxuriously upholstered chairs which had been wheeled in front of the divan. Their attitudes suggested careless unconcern, but their eyes were glowing with repressed excitement. Cigars and liqueurs were on a table between them, and the air was blue with smoke.

The Captain had been chatting with a group of passengers when Pachmann's card was handed to him, but, after a glance at it, he excused himself at once.

"Show the gentlemen to my cabin," he said to the messenger, and himself hastened to it. There, a moment later, Pachmann and the Prince appeared.

"It is necessary that we have a conference to-night," said Pachmann, "with this Ignace Vard. It must be in a room where we cannot by any possibility be overheard."

"It is, I suppose, an affair of state?" asked the Captain.

"Yes; of the first importance."

"My cabin, then, is at your disposal."

"Thank you, sir," said Pachmann. "There could be no better place. I was hoping that you would offer it."

"You will understand, sir," Hausmann went on, stroking his beard nervously, "that an explanation of all this will have to be made to my company."

"I will see that a satisfactory explanation is made, sir," Pachmann assented.

The Captain nodded his relief.

"That is what I desire. I will have Vard brought to you," he said, saluted and withdrew.

He sent a messenger for the inventor, waited until he had entered, and then summoned a sailor and posted him as a sentry outside the door, with instructions to permit no one else to enter or even knock. Then he had another man stretch a rope across the deck some twenty feet abaft the door; and finally mounted thoughtfully to the bridge, considerably to the surprise of his subordinates, and spent the whole evening there, pacing slowly back and forth with an appearance of restlessness the other officers could not understand, for the weather was very fine and the barometer high and steady.

In the cabin below the conference proceeded.

"It is as well, Mr. Vard," Pachmann was saying, "that we should understand each other. The Prince and myself are here as the direct personal representatives of the Emperor, who has given us his fullest confidence and the most complete authority. Any agreement we may make with you, he will recognise as binding. It was a condition of yours, I believe, that you would meet only with persons so empowered."

"I should have preferred to treat with the Emperor himself," said Vard.

"You could scarcely expect him to make this trip to America," Pachmann pointed out, with a smile. "If you had been content to go to Berlin...."

"That was impossible," Vard broke in. "It was stipulated that the treaty should be signed in America, and the Emperor agreed."

"And we are here to carry out that agreement," Pachmann added. "But before we proceed to a consideration of it, I will outline the progress of affairs to the present moment, in order that the Prince may be thoroughly familiar with the matter. If I am mistaken in any detail, please correct me."

Vard nodded, and lay back in his seat, watching the smoke from his cigar, as it wreathed itself toward the ceiling.

"About the middle of July," Pachmann began, "Mr. Vard called on Count Eulenberg, the Chief Marshall of the Imperial Court, and asked for a private audience with the Emperor. The request was so preposterous that the Count was astounded when Mr. Vard persisted in it. After that he was shadowed night and day, his lodgings were searched, his mail opened, and the police authorities were about to expel him from the country as a dangerous person, when something still more astonishing happened. With incredible good fortune, Mr. Vard had in some way managed to secure an audience with Admiral von Tirpitz, Secretary for the Navy; two days later, a secret audience was arranged, at which the Emperor was present. At the request of Admiral von Tirpitz, I was also present, in my capacity as Chief of the Wireless Service.

"At this conference Mr. Vard stated that he had discovered a principle, or invented an apparatus, by which he could explode the magazines of a fort or battleship at any distance up to five miles, and that he believed the perfection of the invention would greatly increase its range. This new principle, which worked in conjunction with the ordinary wireless, was something against which there was no way to guard, since it penetrated both wood and metal. Every ship, every army, every fort was at the mercy of the man controlling it. If a single nation controlled it, that nation would become mistress of the world; if it was common to all nations, war, as we know it, would be impossible.

"Mr. Vard went on to say that it was not his purpose to make this discovery the property of a single nation. His purpose was to render war so impossible that all nations would consent to universal disarmament, and enter into an agreement for universal peace. He had come to Germany first, he said, because she was the greatest of the armed nations, and if she agreed to his proposal, the example would be very great. His proposal was that he would prove that he was able to do everything he claimed, in any way that Germany might prescribe; in the event of his success, Germany was to sign an agreement to disarm, was to secure the signature of Russia and such other nations as she could influence, and this alliance was then to force the agreement of all other nations; the navies and coast defences of such nations as would not agree to be blown to pieces and their consent compelled."

Pachmann paused for a moment and wiped his glistening forehead.

"Am I stating your proposal correctly, Mr. Vard?" he asked.

The inventor nodded, without lowering his eyes from the ceiling.

"I need not say with what astonishment we listened to this extraordinary proposal," Pachmann continued. "It seemed impossible that any merely human brain should have been able to work out the details of a plan so stupendous. But it impressed the Emperor; it impressed all of us. We held other conferences, and it was finally agreed that, before we went further, Mr. Vard should give us the proof he had suggested. The test to which he finally consented was to be a conclusive one. He was to blow up a French battleship in Toulon harbour. As his funds were limited, we agreed to bear the expense of the experiment and to reimburse him for the apparatus which he would have to leave behind. If he succeeded, we would be ready to treat definitely with him; two commissioners, with full powers from the Emperor, would accompany him to America, where such treaty as might finally be agreed upon would be signed. Am I right so far, Mr. Vard?"

The inventor had lowered his eyes and was looking at the speaker keenly.

"Yes," he said, "except that you should add that it was distinctly understood that the treaty was to be one for universal disarmament, and that Germany was to do everything in her power to secure the consent of all other nations."

"You are right," agreed Pachmann, readily. "That was to be the general purpose of the treaty. It was only its details we were to discuss—the exact manner in which this end could best be accomplished."

The Prince had been listening intently, and at the words, his eyes and Pachmann's met. Vard was again gazing at the ceiling.

"On the twentieth of this month," Pachmann continued, "Admiral von Tirpitz received from Mr. Vard, in a code agreed upon, a telegram stating that the test would occur at daylight on Monday the twenty-fifth." He paused for a moment, then went on more slowly. "At that hour, a companion and myself were on the harbour-front of Toulon; and at that hour La Liberte was indeed destroyed."

He stopped, his eyes on the inventor's face. Vard met his glance without flinching.

"Understand," he said, in a low tone, "that I am no monster, that I recognise the sacredness of human life. The test proposed was yours, not mine; I protested against it, and I consented at last because I saw that you would with nothing else be satisfied. But for the destruction of that ship, you will have to atone; to those men who were killed a great monument shall be built; they shall be recognised by all the world as heroes and martyrs; their families shall weep for them, indeed, but with tears of joy and pride. To banish war from the world those men laid down their lives, even as I would lay down mine—even as any brave man would—gladly, eagerly!"

His eyes were shining, and the Prince, looking at him, felt himself shaken by a strange emotion. But across Pachmann's lips flitted an ironical smile, as of one who disdained heroics.

"For the decision as to La Liberte," he said, "I assume full responsibility. It was I who suggested it; it was I who showed that no other proof could be conclusive; it was I who arranged for it. I have no regrets. You have your part of the bargain accomplished, Mr. Vard," he added. "His Highness and myself are here to accomplish ours. We are ready to discuss the details of the treaty."

"I think that first, perhaps, I should look at your credentials," Vard suggested.

"That is just," and Pachmann, getting out his pocket-book, took from it the envelope sealed with the black seal, and handed it to Vard.

Vard took it, glanced at the seal, and hesitated, just as the captain of the Ottilie had done.

"I am to open it?" he asked.

Pachmann nodded.

"It contains my credentials," he said.

A careful inspection of the seal would have disclosed the fact that the envelope had already been opened once—perhaps more than once—but Vard made no such inspection. Instead, he broke the seal with nervous fingers, and drew out the stiff sheet blazing with the Royal insignia. This is the English of what he read:

"Herewith do I grant to the bearer of this paper, Admiral H. Pachmann, power extraordinary as my representative, to enter into agreements, to make treaties, and to sign the same; and I do further declare that I shall consider myself bound by such agreements and signatures as though I myself had made them; and, finally, I command all members of my family, all officers of my army and navy, all members of my diplomatic corps, and all good Germans generally, to yield to him the same obedience they would yield to me; all this for the good of my Empire.

"Signed,

"WILLIAM, R. I. WILHELMSHOeHE, September 21, 1911."

Vard re-read this extraordinary paper, then replaced it in its envelope and silently returned it to its owner. Again that ironical smile flashed across Pachmann's lips, as he restored it to his pocket-book.

"You find it ample, do you not?" he asked.

Vard nodded, and glanced curiously at the Prince, wondering if that young man was aware of the exact wording of this remarkable document, especially of the clause, "all members of my family."

"And now," proceeded Pachmann, adjusting himself to an easier posture, "we shall be glad to hear the further details of your proposal."

Vard paused for a moment to collect his thoughts.

"There is one thing I would understand first," he said. "From that paper, I infer that the Emperor alone is concerned in this—that his cabinet is not aware of it."

"No member of the cabinet except one—whom I will not name," assented Pachmann. "I will not conceal from you that the Emperor is desirous of reaping for himself the full glory of this achievement. He realises that the man who brings about world-peace will be the most famous man in history. He has his ambitions, as you doubtless know."

"Yes, I have heard so," said Vard, with an ironic smile. "Well, let him have the glory—I do not object; besides, he will deserve it. And now for my proposal. It is this: the nations of the world, with Germany and Russia as the first signatories, shall enter into a treaty providing for the immediate disbanding of their armies, dismantling of their forts, and disintegrating of their fleets. Only such troops shall be retained as are needed to provide garrisons for such outposts as may be necessary to protect the Christian world from the incursion of barbarous or nomadic tribes, and only such warships as are needed to assist in this work. The exact number each nation shall maintain will be decided by a general court of adjudication, and all such troops and warships shall be in common; and all expenditures for what are usually known as military purposes shall be in common, apportioned by the same court of adjudication among the nations which are party to the agreement. Under no circumstances may any nation maintain any force privately or for its own use."

"I am interested to know," put in Pachmann, smoothly, "in what manner you propose to secure the consent of the various nations to this scheme. The smaller ones will doubtless be glad to fall into line; but you surely do not expect England and France, for example, to agree merely because we ask it!"

"To those who do not consent," Vard answered calmly, "we will give a demonstration of the necessity for doing so."

"Some such demonstration as that of Monday?"

"Yes—greater ones, if need be."

Pachmann considered this thoughtfully.

"It might do," he said, at last. "A few such demonstrations would no doubt be convincing. Yet there might be one or two which would be obdurate."

"I think, in the end, we can convince them."

"You will go to any lengths to do so?"

"To any necessary lengths."

Pachmann nodded.

"I was desirous of getting a clear expression from you upon that point," he said. "Pray continue."

"I do not believe there will be many such nations," Vard went on. "You have spoken of France and England. I believe France will consent, for she is a nation of idealists. I should have chosen her to lead the movement, but for the fact that her army and navy are inferior to yours, and so she might seem to be acting from fear or from self-interest. Should you refuse—should we be unable to agree—it will be to France I shall go next. As for England, she also fears you—she will be glad to escape from the burden of her armaments and from the shadow of your great power. In fact all nations in whose governments the people have a voice will be eager for disarmament. And the people everywhere must be allowed to speak. If those in power seek to crush them, to restrain them, we must assist them to throw off the yoke of tyranny and decide for themselves."

"Ah," said Pachmann, very quietly. "Socialism—I see!"

"The rule of the people," said Vard, calmly. "The freedom of the people—call it what you will. That is what I labour for. The people of each nation must be free to choose by whom and in what manner they will be governed. That evolution will, of course, take many years; but it must not be cramped or retarded. At the very outset, it will make two considerable changes in the map of Europe. Poland will be reconstituted and Alsace-Lorraine restored to France."