It was mid-forenoon of the following day when Ethel awoke from the profound sleep superinduced by the drug. It was with a vast astonishment that her startled eyes took in the surroundings of the stateroom. There was a blank wall straight opposite her widely gazing eyes, where should have stood a dressing table of Circassian walnut, topped by the long oval mirror always ready to show her the reflected loveliness of her face. And there should have been also lying exposed on the polished surface of the table an orderly and beautiful array of those things that make for a woman's beauty—the creams that cleanse a skin too delicate for the harsh water poured from city mains; in a gold-topped bottle a lotion for the hair, delicate and effective; in dainty phials essences of perfume, subtle, yet curiously pervasive, with the fragrance of joyous springtime. Indeed, a medley of the arts evolved through the ages for the perfecting of that beauty, which, after all, is God-given—a thing not to be attained by the processes of even the most skilled beauty-doctors....

But Ethel possessed the thing itself. To her the accessories were but absurdities—unnecessary and wanton, means whereby to emphasize a natural loveliness.

There should have been a glimmer of pure white light from the back of a hair brush, lying on the dressing table. Ethel had loved the purity of that ivory surface. She had loved it so much that she refused to have it broken by the superimposition upon it of initials wrought cleverly in silver or gold or platinum. That brush meant so much to her! Night by night, she toiled with it. After she had undone the masses of her bronze-gold hair, she worked over them, with a sybaritical, meticulous care.

She was used to sitting in negligÉe and having her maid brush the strands. That brushing made the hair resplendent.... Now, Ethel looked—there was no dressing table—no mirror—nothing, of the sort that she was accustomed to see when she awoke in the morning.

She thought again of her own bedroom at home. She was minded to take her bath, which must be drawn and waiting.... And then, suddenly, that blank wall there before her eyes hammered upon her consciousness.

She was stricken with a curious sense of horror in this instant of realization that she was in some unknown place—absolutely apart from the dear, familiar things of home.

For a few horrid instants that shock of a vague terror pressed upon her like a destroying incubus.

A moment later, recollection thronged upon her. She remembered everything—the coming to the yacht, the fall, the wrenched ankle, the arrival of the physician, the almost dainty pain of the needle thrust into her flesh. And then Ethel began to think that it would be pleasant to be an invalid on board the yacht for a long time. It would need only a judicious selection of guests to make a voyage the most agreeable of diversions.

Just then she was startled into a new emotion. She realized the rhythmic beating of the engines.... The yacht was already under way.

For a little, Ethel was too stunned by the shock of surprise to take action. To her, it was inconceivable that the yacht should be thus voyaging. It should be still lying at anchor in the North River. Her father could have given no orders for its sailing. She had not. There was no one else with authority to command the movements of the craft. It should be lying at anchor in its berth.... But it was not. There was the pulse from the engines, the gentle swing of the hull to prove that a journey was begun. A journey—whither or wherefore she could not even guess.

Ethel put her feet out of the berth, and winced with pain from the movement of the injured ankle. But she set her teeth in grim determination, and stood up, putting her weight on the sound foot. Then she hobbled to the port, and looked out. She saw the highlands of New Jersey slipping gently past. She recognized the lightship. There was no longer room for doubt. The yacht had put to sea.

Ethel remained staring out of the port-hole for a long hour, during which the New Jersey coast unrolled a panorama of varied loveliness. And throughout all that hour, the girl was in a maze of wonder over this thing that had befallen. She could make no guess as to the meaning of it all. She found herself dazed by the unexpected situation. Yet, a certain instinct warned her of danger. She did not in the least understand the nature of the peril, the cause of it, the effect. But somehow a subconscious intelligence guided her to the realization that this inexplicable situation was fraught with portents of evil. Her fear sharpened when she found that the door of the stateroom was locked from the outside.

Moving with care that she might not cause herself more pain by strain in the injured ankle, she looked for and found a pencil and a sheet of paper, on which she scribbled a note to her lover.

"Mr. Roy Morton,
"Birchwood Camp,
"Nahassane, N. Y.

"Dearest Roy:

"I fell and injured my ankle and concluded to stay aboard The Isabel under the care of Dr. Garnet. I awoke this morning and to my surprise, found the yacht headed down the New Jersey coast. I tried to go on deck. I found I had been locked in my stateroom.... Boat still headed south. Come to my rescue!

"I am going to place this note in a face-powder can. I see ahead a fisherman's boat. It is near enough for me to attract its attention. I shall throw the can near the boat, with the hope that the fisherman will open it and find this note. We are heading toward the Delaware Capes.

"Love to you and father,

"Ethel Marion."

She folded the note and scrawled a few words on the outside very hurriedly, for they were now almost abreast the fleet of fishing yawls.

"Mr. Fisherman, I am a prisoner on my own yacht. Please help me and telegraph this letter to Mr. Morton's address." She crammed the bit of paper into the can from which she had emptied the powder. She thrust her head out of the port and uttered a shrill cry to attract the attention of the fisherman. Then she threw the can with all force toward the nearest boat.

Ethel watched in a mood of half hope, half despair. She saw the can fall into the sea. But one of the fishermen also observed the container of her message as it was thrown into the water. Ethel, watching with strained eyes, perceived the figure of a man in oilskins who suddenly thrust a boat-hook overboard, fished with it for a moment, then drew alongside the tin can, bent over, and picked it out of the water.... The girl thrilled with relief over the success of her attempt to send news of the trouble come upon her.

Nevertheless, there was, there could be, no immediate effect of the message. The engine of the yacht throbbed steadily, carrying her moment by moment further from home and lover and father and friends, to a destination unknown—a destination fraught by imagination with unguessed horrors.

Suddenly, Ethel forgot all the difficulties of this strange situation in a realization of the fact that she was hungry—atrociously hungry! It dawned upon her that she had not eaten a single morsel of food since the luncheon of the previous day. She realized then that she was entirely dependent upon her unknown captor, even for food to keep her body alive.

The distraught girl thought of the locked stateroom door, and was made frantic by the fact that she was thus shut in, a prisoner. She stared longingly at the small, round port-hole. She regarded that swinging window of heavy plate glass with an anxiety of desire that thrilled through every atom of her blood. She wondered: Could she by any chance thrust her slender body through that narrow aperture? She even went so far as to measure the width of the disc—comparing the space to her own slender breadth of shoulders.

She thought that it might be possible for her to thrust her lithe form through the meager opening. She believed that she could push her body through the port-hole. She dared to hope that she might thus escape. Down below was the runway used by the sailors. It seemed to her that the matter of escape would be simple.

Her hunger urged Ethel to make the desperate attempt. She was sure that could she once reach the runway she would be safe from detection on the part of the one directing the course of the craft from the pilot-house. She had heard no noise from the galley, which was near her room. She was certain that it was unoccupied, and that she could slip into it unnoticed, there to satisfy her longing for food from the abundant supply of canned goods. Then, after relieving her hunger, she could determine her future conduct. She might decide to act the brave part by showing herself and demanding to know the cause of her confinement; or she might return in the way by which she had come to the stateroom, with a supply of food, and thus await developments.

The distracted girl took a full hour for consideration of the matter. Betimes, she was bold to the point of desperation; betimes, she was flaccid with despair, helpless before the mysterious horrors of her situation. But at last courage rose in her, became dominant. She resolved to make the attempt at a descent through the opening. Now, she was not in the least intimidated by the very real danger of being unable to secure safe footing upon the narrow runway. The deck below was without a solid rail. It had only the light hand rail with an open space beneath, through which her body might easily plunge into the sea. Moreover, the peril of the exploit was increased for her by the fact of her injured ankle, which must make her footing awkward and unsteady at the best.

Ethel found some comfort on a final examination of the injured ankle. The swelling from the sprain had lessened very perceptibly. She discovered, too, that now she could bend the joint a little without experiencing the excruciating pain which such movement had produced before she lost consciousness from the effect of the opiate. The fact that the injury was not so severe as she had thought and that she could at least depend upon the hurt member for some support, painful though it might be, heartened her anew. Without further pause for reasonings pro and con, she began to force her body through the opening.

The berth was so located that by placing her sound foot upon the edge of it she was able to thrust the upper part of her body out of the port-hole. But this aid would not serve for the remainder of the progress. To get her hips through, she would have to depend on being able to seize the hand rail and thus pull herself outward and downward. She had no fear of being caught midway and held fast, for her measurements had proved that her shoulders were a trifle broader than her hips. The danger would lie in getting a firm grip with her hands on the rail and in the subsequent swinging down of her body to the tiny width of the runway. Now, as she lunged forward, she held her hands outstretched, as if she were about to dive into the sea. In this moment of stress she thanked God for the strictness with which her father had insisted on athletic training. She knew that her eye was keen and accurate, that her muscles were strong, ready with instant response to the commands of will.

But, to her dismay, Ethel found that, notwithstanding measurements, her shoulders would not pass through the opening. She writhed in fruitless endeavor until she was exhausted by the strain. Finally, she gave up the attempt and drew back into the cabin, utterly downcast by her failure. Then, when she was somewhat refreshed, she tested the accuracy of her measurements. To her astonishment she found that she had made no mistake. The port-hole was in fact a little wider than her shoulders. For a time she was puzzled by the mystery of it all. Then, suddenly, understanding came to her. She realized that the outstretching of her arms had caused a lifting and consequent broadening of the shoulders. Once again hope filled her. She repeated her attempt, but now with arms dropped close to her sides. She thrilled with delight as her shoulders slid easily through the opening.

Then, in the next instant, the joy vanished. In its place came stark terror. For she found herself held motionless, when half way through the port-hole, with her arms bound fast by the pressure. She struggled violently, but to no avail. She was caught prisoner with a ruthless firmness that could not be escaped. Her frantic strivings did not budge her body the fraction of an inch either forward or backward. Indeed, it seemed that her futile endeavors to free herself only succeeded in wedging her more securely. She fancied that her own physical violence was causing her body to swell so that it should be gripped more fiercely by the unyielding circumference of the window. There flashed on her a memory of how once she had tried on a friend's ring, had tried it on a finger too large; of how she had pushed it down easily enough over the joint; of how she could not push it back again. She remembered how the finger had swiftly swollen until the ring was deep sunken in the reddened flesh. Now, she imagined her body, caught within the metal rim of the port-hole, was thus reddened and swollen. Her plight filled her with anguish. The dread of it made her forget in this new, overmastering fear all that she had so greatly dreaded hitherto.... Her voice broke in a scream:

"Help! Oh, help! Help!"

Almost instantly, as her voice ceased, Ethel heard the sound of hurrying feet on the deck above. She twisted her neck to look upward, and saw the pleasantly smiling face of Doctor Gifford Garnet, as he peered over the hurricane rail. In that moment of relief, the girl welcomed the familiar countenance of the family physician. She had no thought for the cunning smile that answered to her anguished appeal. She realized only that here was one to succor her in her extremity. She called out to him imploringly:

"Oh, Doctor, help me please. I am caught here. My body is swelling, I think. You must get me out at once or I shall die. Oh, hurry!"

The Doctor grinned at her with sardonic enjoyment of her predicament. But his bland words soothed her alarm:

"I come to your rescue with all speed, Miss Ethel. Never fear, little one, you will soon be quite safe. I hasten to relieve your suffering."

He vanished. Then, a few seconds later, she saw him making his way along the runway. She did not see the hypodermic syringe he carried in his left hand. She did not understand even when he came to her, and put his two hands to her shoulders as if to help her. She felt the sting of pain in her right arm, but thought it no more than the twinge of a strained muscle. Doctor Garnet deftly slipped the hypodermic syringe into his pocket without the girl's observing it. He spoke to her gently, encouragingly, awaiting the action of the drug. Then, a few moments later, Ethel's lids drooped, her form grew limp, her head lolled to the slight swaying of the yacht. She was held now in a clutch more terrible and more relentless than that of the metal band about her body. She was the hapless prisoner of morphia. Dr. Garnet stared into the face of the unconscious girl for a long half minute, with a curious gloating in his gaze. Then, abruptly, he strode away, and as he went he chuckled softly, with infinite relish over some evil jest known only to himself.