It was sundown and six bells upon the Pole Star, when the lock clicked, and Whitehouse entered.

"Well, old man," he said, boastfully, "we've turned the trick. Night's coming on and the Bear is 'ull down. This is a regular king's yacht—speed of the best, and seaworthy."

"It won't help you—in the end. How are you going to get out of the Bering?"

"I'll leave that to Captain Marr. I just dropped in to see if you 'ad been fed. I don't nurse any 'ard feelings. I forgive my enemies, I do."

In a way, Whitehouse spoke the truth. Stirling had always held a slight liking for the English mate, who was one of England's outcasts—one who had left his country for his country's good. He had the roving disposition of the British, forgave quickly, and hated only for a short period of time.

"You're about the best of the bunch," said Stirling, feeling his temple where the belaying pin had struck. "I hold being knocked out against you, but that is all. Why don't you play like a man, which you are, and prevail on Marr to abandon his useless expedition? The entire shipping world will be searching for him. You haven't as much chance of escaping as a thief in a crowded street."

"That's when the thief escapes," Whitehouse said.

"I'll take the regular galley mess of food," Stirling abruptly remarked.

The mate nodded. "All right," he said, backing to the door and standing in the alleyway. "All right, old man. No 'ard feelings?"

Stirling allowed the shadow of a smile to creep across his lips. He eyed the cockney with a calculating expression, thinking swiftly and to one point. "Where are we heading?" he asked.

"Siberia. We 'ave a nice little cove picked out."

"In the Gulf of Anadir?"

"There or thereabouts."

"Marr don't know that coast."

"The second engineer does. 'E was with the De Long expedition. Says it's a bloomin' fine shore all the woiy to the mouth of the Lena."

"Fine is right!" said Stirling with a smile, sitting down on his bunk and crossing his legs. "It's barren and death-haunted. One thing——"

Whitehouse paused with the key in his hand.

"There are revolutionists at that point," said Stirling. "Marr should be careful where he puts in."

"They won't bother us."

"I'm not so sure. They would cheat a cheater any time."

Whitehouse flushed. "A cheater?"

"That's what you and Marr are! Cheaters! You raided the rookeries. Your judge will be the retribution which governs all wrongdoing. Your own heart and soul rebel against what you have done."

Whitehouse disappeared from the opening, and Stirling could hear him giving instructions to the sentry. Footfalls sounded going up the companion and along the quarter-deck, and then the mate came back to the door and leaned against the chamfer. He rubbed his long red nose with a reflective finger.

"I'm in hit too bloomin' far to get out now, Stirling. I'll do my best by you. Do you want to get away at the mouth of the Anadir? I can fix that."

Stirling made a slow calculation on his fingers. He glanced upward toward the deck and furrowed his brows. "The Gulf," he said, dropping his glance and staring at Whitehouse, "is about three thousand miles from any sort of civilization. I think I'll stay on board—a prisoner."

The mate nodded good-naturedly and turned toward a Kanaka, who brought a tray upon which were two tins of stew and a steaming pot of coffee.

Stirling took these and set them at the end of the bunk. Whitehouse shrugged his shoulders, examined the lock with a smirk, and closed the door. The bolt clicked.

The Kanaka resumed his sentry duties, but Stirling had secured a good glance at him. He was an old Arctic Ocean harpooner, and had once sailed on a whaler which had been gammed by the Ice Pilot. He was the weak link in the chain, concluded Stirling. A native would be more likely to listen to reason than any member of the Pole Star's crew. There was a latent loyalty for the right in every Kanaka's breast. Many had been brought up by missionaries.

"With a dainty friend somewhere aft, and a sentry like that harpooner, I've a fighting chance," said Stirling, leaning over the savoury stew.

The pockets of his pea-jacket contained a few crumbs of tobacco and a pipe. He set down the tray with the empty tins upon the deck, leaned back, and lighted a match.

The puffs of smoke he blew toward the porthole were like salvos of shrapnel. The situation had cleared during the hours since leaving St. Paul Island and the rookeries. Whitehouse had become genial; the grumbling voices of the crew were more or less stilled; the little skipper was in a desperate position.

Stirling sensed the general direction of the swiftly driving poacher. The cant to port, the general steadiness of the wind in the Bering, the drifting floes—all these were points by which he guided his deductions.

Siberia and the open Gulf of Anadir should be reached by noon of the day to come. This would mean little less than twelve steaming hours. The Island of St. Lawrence lay some few leagues to the northward. The Bear, provided she had not given up the pursuit, might search the shores of that island. There were two native settlements on the western coast, and these were a likely refuge for poachers and those who lived beyond the law.

There came then to Stirling's straining ears the soft sound of a piano. He set his pipe on a rack at the head of the bunk and moved stealthily toward the door. Pressing his ear to the panel of this, he listened. He heard the shuffling of the sentry's feet, and above this sound lilted a thin, pure note which could come only from a woman's throat. It rose, fell, and was raised once more into a remembered song:

"Whither, oh, splendid ship, thy white sails crowding,

Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West,

Thou fearest nor sea rising, nor sky clouding,

Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest?"

Stirling breathed with deep intakes of close breath. He caught the swing of the words as if they were attuned to his own thoughts, and they steadied him in his determination to remain aboard the Pole Star and ascertain what manner of woman or girl lived in the after ship. She was related to Marr—that much was evident. He wondered if she were his wife, sister, or ward. One of the three would explain her being aboard. None would explain why she seemed to be almost a prisoner.

He listened for more music, and now and then the piano throbbed a vibrant note. At last it was still. There alone remained the swish of the waves, the creak of blocks, the sliding footfalls on the quarter-deck, to mark their passage.

The last light of day died from the surface of the waters, and the first bright star lay horizon down. It came up grandly out of the east and from the direction of Alaska, shining through the open porthole like an eye of promise. Stirling rose from the seat he had taken on the bunk and turned out the electric light. He leaned back and studied this star, finding solace and resolve in its white rays.

Daybreak, at the early hour of two bells, brought Stirling out of his dreams and into the grip of a coming dawn. He washed himself and glanced ruefully at his unshaven features, but there was no way to remedy the matter. Seamen in the Bering and Arctic often went for an entire season without shaving.

He thought of the girl and her song as he idled through the hour which followed. She had grown closer to him in some manner. It was as if there were two prisoners on one ship. Her voice had contained the vibrant note of anxiety. She had asked in a manner which he could fathom, where the tall poacher was going? She, too, was gripped by the mystery.

The first glimpse of the haze-surrounded sun, which rose over the Bering Sea, was the magnet that drew Stirling away from his thoughts of the girl and to the open porthole. The sea was specked and laced with drift ice and whale slick. Old "grandpas" floated by—grimy and honeycombed from the action of the brine. Walruses and seals dived from these ancient ice clusters. Birds wheeled away from the course of the fast-driving poacher.

The course had been changed overnight, this Stirling detected with a guilty start as he noted the position of the sun. They were now well within the Gulf of Anadir, and the ice which floated about had just been detached from the shore. Its surface was partly snow.

Seven bells brought the first glimpse of land to Stirling. A dark promontory lifted into the Arctic sky, and this was crowned with a hedge of Northern pines. Green moss grew down the folds of the headland. A tundra stuck out from the lower silt. They were skirting the wild coast of Anadir.

"Siberia," said Stirling. "What a land!" He turned from the porthole and studied the interior of the cabin. The little revolver which the girl had given to him was still within the grip of his garter. He reached downward and loosened it, examining its butt and silver-plated barrel. It was loaded.

He eyed the door leading to the alleyway, and pocketed the revolver as steps sounded outside.

Whitehouse shouted in through the keyhole: "Hold steady and wait, old man. I'll see that you're well fed by eight bells. No 'ard feelings, eh?"

Stirling did not answer. He moved about, however, and otherwise let the mate know that he was still aboard the ship.

Eight bells did not bring the promised food. Instead, the ship slowed down, and at last glided across the sea with her screw still.

The sound of running feet came to Stirling who sprang to the porthole and glanced out. They were rounding a rocky wall whose fissures gushed white from descending torrents of snow water. The ship ported, steadied in slow circling, and entered a mountain-encompassed harbour as lovely and as lonely as any in all the world.

Her taper yards scraped the stones to starboard and port, her keel once touched a sandy split, but she went on by the billowed pressure of the wind on the canvas. The way opened to a glen in solid granite and schist, and here the anchor chain was let go with a rusty clank. The stern swung, almost touching a narrow shelf, up from which an agile man could climb, or down to which he might lower himself.

A jubilant voice rolled throughout the sheltered ship. It came from Whitehouse, who had danced upon the quarter-deck planks in his glee. "All 'ands aft to spice the main brace!"

Stirling understood this last order. The crew, the engine-room force, the stokehold gang, and the steerage crowd were invited to empty a case of whisky.

Marr's toast to his fellow conspirators was given with a bold attempt to hold their confidence. "Drink hearty, mates!" he exclaimed. "Drink to the eternal confusion of the revenue cutters!"

Stirling hardly smiled, but scraped his pockets and found some few crumbs of tobacco. These he pressed into his pipe and lighted with a sulphur match. "I'll smoke to that promise," he said, simply. "A bear never lets go when its grip fastens."