Braxton Hogarth, detective, member of the Atlantic Agency, in good standing, now, by right of law and by virtue of his craft, restored to his freedom and identity, stepped back and was swallowed up by the crowd.

The great ocean liner steamed out from the port of New York on its pathless journey to the sunny south of France. Randolph Mason sat in an invalid chair close up to the rail of the deck; he was grim, emaciated, and rigidly ugly. His body was exhausted, worn out utterly long ago, but the fierce mysterious spirit of the man was tireless and wrought on unceasingly.

For a time he was silent, his eyes wide, and his jaw set like a wolf trap. Suddenly he clutched the rail and staggered to his feet.

"Parks," he muttered,—"Parks, this ship is worth a million dollars. Come with me to the cabin and I will show you how it may be wrested from the owners and no crime committed; do you understand me, Parks? no crime!"

Note.—For the purpose of a complete demonstration, two situations are here combined. In the first, the crime of robbery was committed, but in such a manner as to completely evade an inference of the animus furandi, although it was in fact present and obtained. In the second, there was no robbery, the animus furandi being entirely absent, although it apparently existed in a conspicuous degree.

THE END.