“How are you making out, Newton?” he asked, calmly.

“Denny? Why, God bless me, boy, I’m glad to see you! How’s your dad?”

“Reading.”

“That would be like him. I don’t suppose if hell opened under his feet he’d do anything except look interested. And it ’pears to me’s though hell had opened up right now!”

A chuckle came from the chart table.

“What’s your idea of hell, Newton?” asked Cunningham.

“Anything you might have a hand in,” was the return bolt.

“Why, you used to like me!”

“Yes, yes! But I didn’t know you then. The barometer’s dropping. If it was August I’d say we were nosing into a typhoon. I always hated this yellow muck they call a sea over here. Did you pick up that light?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the wheelman. “I take it she’s making south—Hong-Kong way. There’s 144 plenty of sea room. She’ll be well down before we cross her wake.”

Silence except for the rumble of the weather canvas standing up against the furious blasts of the wind. Dennison stepped over to the chart table.

“Cunningham, I would like to have a word with you.”

“Go ahead. You can have as many as you like.”

“At dinner you spoke of your word.”

“So I did. What about it?”

“Do you keep it?”

“Whenever I humanly can. Well?”

“What’s this Catwick Island?”

“Hanged if I know!”

“Are you going to maroon us there?”

“No. At that point the yacht will be turned back to your father, and he can cruise until the crack o’ doom without further interference from yours truly.”

“That’s your word?”

“It is—and I will keep it. Anything else?”

“Yes. I will play the game as it lies, provided that Miss Norman is in nowise interfered with or annoyed.”

“How is she taking it?”

“My reply first.” 145

“Neither I nor the crew will bother her. She shall come and go free as the gull in the air. If at any time the men do not observe the utmost politeness toward her you will do me a favour to report to me. That’s my word, and I promise to keep it, even if I have to kill a man or two. I wish to come through clean in the hands so far as your father, Miss Norman, and yourself are concerned. I’m risking my neck and my liberty, for this is piracy on the high seas. But every man is entitled to one good joke during his lifetime, and when we raise the Catwick I’ll explain this joke in full. If you don’t chuckle, then you haven’t so much as a grain of humour in your make-up.”

“Well, there’s nothing for me to do but take your word as you give it.”

“That’s the way to talk. Now, Flint, this bay or lagoon——”

The voice dropped into a low, indistinguishable murmur. Dennison realized that the moment had come to depart; the edge of the encounter was in Cunningham’s favour and to remain would only serve to sharpen this edge. So he went outside, slamming the door behind him.

The word of a rogue! There was now nothing to do but turn in. He believed he had a glimmer. Somewhere off the Catwick Cunningham and his crew were to be picked up. He would not be 146 going to the Catwick himself, not knowing whether it was jungle or bald rock. But if a ship was to pick him up, why hadn’t she made Shanghai and picked him up there? Why commit piracy—unless he was a colossal liar, which Dennison was ready enough to believe. The word of a rogue!

Some private war? Was Cunningham paying off an old grudge? But was any grudge worth this risk? The old boy wasn’t to be scared; Cunningham ought to have known that. If Cleigh came through with a whole skin he’d hunt the beggar down if it carried him to the North Pole. Cunningham ought to have known that, too. A planted crew, piracy—and he, Dennison Cleigh, was eventually to chuckle over it! He had his doubts. And where did the glass beads come in? Or had Cunningham spoken the truth—a lure? A big game somewhere in the offing. And the rogue was right! The world, dizzily stewing in a caldron of monumental mistakes, would give scant attention to an off-side play such as this promised to be. Not a handhold anywhere to the puzzle. The old boy might have the key, but Dennison Cleigh could not go to him for the solution.

His own father! Just as he had become used to the idea that the separation was final, absolute, to be thrown together in this fantastic manner! 147 The father’s arm under his neck and the cup at his lips had shaken him profoundly. But Cleigh would not have denied a dog drink had the dog exhibited signs of thirst. So nothing could be drawn from that.

Morning. Jane opened her eyes, only to shut them quickly. The white brilliancy of the cabin hurt. Across the ceiling ran a constant flicker of silver—reflected sunshine on the water. Southward—they were heading southward. She jumped out of bed and stepped over to the port. Flashing yellow water, a blue sky, and far off the oddly ribbed sails of a Chinese junk labouring heavily in the big sea that was still running. Glorious!

She dressed hurriedly and warmly, bundling her hair under a velours hat and ramming a pin through both.

“Denny?” she called.

There was no answer. He was on deck, probably.

An odd scene awaited her in the main salon. Cleigh, senior, stood before the phonograph listening to Caruso. The roll of the yacht in nowise disturbed the mechanism of the instrument. There was no sudden sluing of the needle, due to an amateurish device which Cleigh himself had constructed. The son, stooping, was searching the 148 titles of a row of new novels. The width of the salon stretched between the two.

“Good morning, everybody!”

There was a joyousness in her voice she made not the least attempt to conceal. She was joyous, alive, and she did not care who knew it.

Dennison acknowledged her greeting with a smile, a smile which was a mixture of wonder and admiration. How in the world was she to be made to understand that they were riding a deep-sea volcano?

“Nothing disturbed you through the night?” asked Cleigh, lifting the pin from the record.

“Nothing. I lay awake for an hour or two, but after that I slept like a log. Have I kept you waiting?”

“No. Breakfast isn’t quite ready,” answered Cleigh.

“What makes the sea so yellow?”

“All the big Chinese rivers are mud-banked and mud-bottomed. They pour millions of tons of yellow mud into these waters. By this afternoon, however, I imagine we’ll be nosing into the blue. Ah!”

“Breakfast iss served,” announced Togo the Jap.

The trio entered the dining salon in single file, and once more Jane found herself seated between 149 the two men. One moment she was carrying on a conversation with the father, the next moment with the son. The two ignored each other perfectly. Under ordinary circumstances it would have been strange enough; but in this hour, when no one knew where or how this voyage would end! A real tragedy or some absurd trifle? Probably a trifle; trifles dug more pits than tragedies. Perhaps tragedy was mis-named. What humans called tragedy was epic, and trifles were real tragedies. And then there were certain natures to whom the trifle was epical; to whom the inconsequent was invariably magnified nine diameters; and having made a mistake, would die rather than admit it.

To bring these two together, to lure them from behind their ramparts of stubbornness, to see them eventually shake hands and grin as men will who recognize that they have been playing the fool! She became fired with the idea. Only she must not move prematurely; there must arrive some psychological moment.

During the meal, toward the end of it, one of the crew entered. He was young—in the early twenties. The manner in which he saluted convinced Dennison that the fellow had recently been in the United States Navy.

“Mr. Cunningham’s compliments, sir. Canvas 150 has been rigged on the port promenade and chairs and rugs set out.”

Another salute and he was off.

“Well, that’s decent enough,” was Dennison’s comment. “That chap has been in the Navy. It’s all miles over my head, I’ll confess. Cunningham spoke of a joke when I accosted him in the chart house last night.”

“You went up there?” cried Jane.

“Yes. And among other things he said that every man is entitled to at least one good joke. What the devil can he mean by that?”

Had he been looking at his father Dennison would have caught a fleeting, grim, shadowy smile on the strong mouth.

“You will find a dozen new novels on the shelves, Miss Norman,” said Cleigh as he rose. “I’ll be on deck. I generally walk two or three miles in the morning. Let us hang together this day to test the scalawag’s promise.”

“Mr. Cleigh, when you spoke of reparation last night, you weren’t thinking in monetary terms, were you?”

Cleigh’s brows lowered a trifle, but it was the effect of puzzlement.

“Because,” she proceeded, gravely, “all the money you possess would not compensate me for the position you have placed me in.” 151

“Well, perhaps I did have money in mind. However, I hold to my word. Anything you may ask.”

“Some day I will ask you for something.”

“And if humanly possible I promise to give it,” and with this Cleigh took leave.

Jane turned to Dennison.

“It is so strange and incomprehensible! You two sitting here and ignoring each other! Surely you don’t hate your father?”

“I have the greatest respect and admiration for him. To you no doubt it seems fantastic; but we understand each other thoroughly, my father and I. I’d take his hand instantly, God knows, if he offered it! But if I offered mine it would be glass against diamond—I’d only get badly scratched. Suppose we go on deck? The air and the sunshine——”

“But this catastrophe has brought you together after all these years. Isn’t there something providential in that?”

“Who can say?”

On deck they fell in behind Cleigh, and followed him round for fully an hour; then Jane signified that she was tired, and Dennison put her in the centre chair and wrapped the rug about her. He selected the chair at her right.

Jane shut her eyes, and Dennison opened a novel. It was good reading, and he became 152 partially absorbed. The sudden creak of a chair brought his glance round. His father had seated himself in the vacant chair.

The phase that dug in and hurt was that his father made no endeavour to avoid him—simply ignored his existence. Seven years and not a crack in the granite! He laid the book on his knees and stared at the rocking horizon.

One of the crew passed. Cleigh hailed him.

“Send Mr. Cleve to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

“Are you comfortable, sir?”

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

“If you mean to come over to your side, no. My life wouldn’t be worth a snap of the thumb. You know something about Dick Cunningham. I know him well. The truth is, Mr. Cleigh, we’re off on a big gamble, and if we win out ten thousand wouldn’t interest me. Life on board will be exactly as it was before you put into Shanghai. More I am not at liberty to tell you.”

“How far is the Catwick?”

“Somewhere round two thousand—eight or 153 nine days, perhaps ten. We’re not piling on—short of coal. It’s mighty difficult to get it for a private yacht. You may not find a bucketful in Singapore. In America you can always commandeer it, having ships and coal mines of your own. The drop down to Singapore from the Catwick is about forty hours. You have coal in Manila. You can cable for it.”

“You are honestly leaving us at that island?”

“Yes, sir. You can, if you wish, take the run up to Saigon; but your chance for coal there is nil.”

“Cleve,” said Cleigh, solemnly, “you appreciate the risks you are running?”

“Mr. Cleigh, there are no risks. It’s a dead certainty. Cunningham is one of your efficiency experts. Everything has been thought of.”

“Except fate,” supplemented Cleigh.

“Fate? Why, she’s our chief engineer!”

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

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

“Hangman’s hemp—if I live long enough,” was the grim declaration, and Cleigh drew the rug over his knees.

“But it can’t be anything dreadful if they can laugh over it!” 154

“Did you ever hear Mephisto laugh in Faust? Cunningham is a queer duck. I don’t suppose there’s a corner on the globe he hasn’t had a peek at. He has a vast knowledge of the arts. His real name nobody seems to know. He can make himself very likable to men and attractive to women. The sort of women he seeks do not mind his physical deformity. His face and his intellect draw them, and he is as cruel as a wolf. It never occurred to me until last night that men like me create his kind. But I don’t understand him in this instance. A play like this, with all the future risks! After I get the wires moving he won’t be able to stir a hundred miles in any direction.”

“But so long as he doesn’t intend to harm us—and I’m convinced he doesn’t—perhaps we’d better play the game as he asks us to.”

“Miss Norman,” said Cleigh in a tired voice, “will you do me the favour to ask Captain Dennison why he has never touched the twenty thousand I deposited to his account?”

Astonished, Jane turned to Dennison to repeat the question, but was forestalled.

“Tell Mr. Cleigh that to touch a dollar of that money would be a tacit admission that Mr. Cleigh had the right to strike Captain Dennison across the mouth.”

Dennison swung out of the chair and strode off 155 toward the bridge, his shoulders flat and his neck stiff.

“You struck him?” demanded Jane, impulsively.

But Cleigh did not answer. His eyes were closed, his head rested against the back of the chair so Jane did not press the question. It was enough that she had seen behind a corner of this peculiar veil. And, oddly, she felt quite as much pity for the father as for the son. A wall of pride, Alpine high, and neither would force a passage!

They did not see the arch rogue during the day, but he came in to dinner. He was gay—in a story-telling mood. There was little or no banter, for he spoke only to Jane, and gave her flashes of some of his amazing activities in search of art treasures. He had once been chased up and down Japan by the Mikado’s agents for having in his possession some royal-silk tapestry which it is forbidden to take out of the country. Another time he had gone into Tibet for a lama’s ghost mask studded with raw emeralds and turquoise, and had suffered untold miseries in getting down into India. Again he had entered a Rajput haremlik as a woman, and eventually escaped with the fabulous rug which hung in the salon. Adventure, adventure, and death always at his elbow! There was nothing of the braggart in the man; he 156 recounted his tales after the manner of a boy relating some college escapades, deprecatingly.

Often Jane stole a glance at one or the other of the Cleighs. She was constantly swung between—but never touched—the desire to laugh and the desire to weep over this tragedy, which seemed so futile.

“Why don’t you write a book about these adventures?” she asked.

“A book? No time,” said Cunningham. “Besides, the moment one of these trips is over it ends; I can recount it only sketchily.”

“But even sketchily it would be tremendously interesting. It is as if you were playing a game with death for the mere sport of it.”

“Maybe that hits it, though I’ve never stopped to analyze. I never think of death; it is a waste of gray matter. I should be no nearer death in Tibet than I should be asleep in a cradle. Why bother about the absolute, the inevitable? Humanity wears itself out building bridges for imaginary torrents. I am an exception; that is why I shall be young and handsome up to the moment the grim stalker puts his claw on my shoulder.”

He smiled whimsically.

“But you, have you never caught some of the passion for possessing rare paintings, rugs, manuscripts?” 157

“You miss the point. What does the sense of possession amount to beside the sense of seeking and finding? Cleigh here thinks he is having a thrill when he signs a check. It is to laugh!”

“Have you ever killed a man?” It was one of those questions that leap forth irresistibly. Jane was a bit frightened at her temerity.

Cunningham drank his coffee deliberately.

“Yes.”

“Oh!”

Jane shrank back a little.

“But never willfully,” Cunningham added—“always in self-defence, and never a white man.”

There was a peculiar phase about the man’s singular beauty. Animated, it was youthful; in grim repose, it was sad and old.

“Death!” said Jane in a kind of awed whisper. “I have watched many die, and I cannot get over the terror of it. Here is a man with all the faculties, physical and mental; a human being, loving, hating, working, sleeping; and in an instant he is nothing!”

“A Chinaman once said that the thought of death is as futile as water in the hand. By the way, Cleigh—and you too, captain—give the wireless a wide berth. There’s death there.”

Jane saw the fire opals leap into the dark eyes.