If Aunt Caroline had been bred to the sea, and familiar with its customs that have practically crystallized into an unwritten law, she would have written in her log:

Aboard the yacht Sunshine—Latitude, 40° 43' North; Longitude, 74° 0' West. Weather, clear; wind, SSW., moderate; sea, smooth. Barometer, 29.6.

But not being a seafaring lady, she phrased it in this way in the course of a remark to her nephew:

"William, isn't it lovely to be sitting here aboard our own yacht in the Hudson, and isn't the weather superb?"

The Sunshine still lay at her anchorage, with every prospect auspicious, except for the fact that nothing had been heard from Mrs. Rokeby-Jones. The sun had set somewhere in New Jersey and the lights of New York were shining in its stead. There was a soft coolness in the air, so that Aunt Caroline found comfort in a light wrap.

Bill had decided that they would not sail until later in the evening. This was not because of Aunt Caroline's anxiety concerning the missing guest, but for the reason that he had an errand ashore which he had been unable to discharge during the busy hours of the day. It was an errand he could trust to nobody, not even to Pete Stearns. In fact, he did not consider it wisdom to take Pete into his confidence.

Aunt Caroline had, indeed, discovered a telephone aboard the Sunshine. It was in the owner's stateroom, which had been set apart for her because it was the most commodious of all the sleeping apartments. Three times she had talked into this telephone, on each occasion giving the correct number of the Rokeby-Jones house, of which she had made a memorandum before leaving shore. But each time she was answered by the voice of a man, always the same voice. The second time he laughed and the third time he hung up with a bang! So Aunt Caroline, after vainly trying to lodge a complaint with "Information," made a personal investigation and discovered that the other end of the telephone system was in the cabin of the sailing-master.

She made an instant complaint to Bill, and Bill referred her to Pete. The latter explained it very easily.

"You see, madam, through a mistake the telephone company was notified that we were sailing several hours ago, so they sent a man out in a boat to disconnect the shore wire. I'm very sorry, madam."

Aunt Caroline accepted the explanation, as she had come to accept anything from Pete Stearns, although it did nothing to allay her anxiety as to Mrs. Rokeby-Jones.

Dinner had been over for more than an hour and darkness had settled upon the river when Bill Marshall announced that he was going ashore. He said that it was expressly for the purpose of pursuing Aunt Caroline's thwarted telephone inquiry and that he would not come back until he had definite news. His aunt thanked him for his thoughtfulness, settled herself for a nap in a deck-chair and Bill ordered the launch.

He was about to embark upon his errand when it occurred to him that perhaps his secretary would also like to go ashore. Bill had it in the back of his head that there might be time to pay a short visit to a roof-garden or seek some sequestered place for a chat. He had been trying for some time to have a confidential chat with Mary Wayne, but she had an annoying way of discovering other and prior engagements.

"You mean the young lady, sir?" said the second officer. "She went ashore an hour ago, sir. I sent her across in the launch."

Bill became thoughtful. Why hadn't she mentioned the matter to him? And who was the boss of this yacht, anyhow? Could people order up the launch just as if they owned it?

He made a search for Pete Stearns and could not find him. Again he spoke to the second officer.

"Oh, the young man, sir? Why, he went ashore at the same time. I believe I heard him say that he had a few purchases to make."

Bill gritted his teeth. Here was a piece of presumption that no owner could tolerate. They had gone away together, of course; they had been very careful not to say a word to him. What for? What sort of an affair was in progress between his valet and his secretary? The more he thought about it the higher rose his temper.

"I'm going ashore myself," he said shortly. "Please hurry the launch."

Ten minutes later he was hunting for a taxi along the Manhattan waterfront, deeply disturbed in mind and with a fixed resolution to demand explanations.

But the suspicions of Bill Marshall did injustice at least to one of the missing persons. Mary Wayne had gone ashore on a purely private mission, and she was not only surprised, but annoyed when her employer's valet also stepped into the launch.

"If you don't mind, miss," said Pete, apologetically, as the launch was headed for the wharf, "I have some purchases to make for Mr. William."

Mary answered, of course, that she did not mind, and after that she kept her thoughts to herself. Where the wharf entrance opened on Twelfth Avenue, Pete lifted his hat respectfully, bid her good evening, and went off in an opposite direction.

But he did not go far; merely far enough to conceal himself in a shadow from which he could watch without fear of discovery. Mary was without suspicion; she walked briskly eastward, glad to be so easily rid of her fellow passenger. When he had permitted her to assume a safe lead, Pete stepped out of his shadow and followed.

It was fortunate that there were two taxis at the stand which Mary discovered after a journey of several blocks through lonely streets; that is, Pete considered it was fortunate. He took the second one, giving the driver the order and promise of reward that are usual in such affairs. This nocturnal excursion on the part of Mary Wayne had piqued his curiosity. He knew that she had not spoken to Bill Marshall about it; he doubted if she had said anything to Aunt Caroline. The clandestine character of Mary's shore visit impressed him as warranting complete investigation.

The two taxis had not been in motion for many minutes when Pete became convinced that he could name Mary's destination almost beyond a question. They were headed down-town, with occasional jogs toward the East Side. So certain was Pete of his conclusion and so anxious was he, purely for reasons of self-gratification, to prove the accuracy of his powers of deduction, that he halted his taxi, paid off the driver and set off at a leisurely walk, quite content in mind as he watched the vehicle that contained Mary Wayne disappear from view.

Twenty minutes later Pete found himself vindicated. In front of the boarding-house where Nell Norcross roomed stood a taxi. Sitting on the top step of the porch were two figures. As he strolled slowly by on the opposite side of the street he had no difficulty in recognizing Mary Wayne's smart little yachting suit of white linen. Of course, there was no doubt as to the identity of the second person, even though the street lights were dim and there was no lamp-post within a hundred feet of the boarding-house. Pete walked as far as the corner and posted himself.

The conversation between Mary and Nell proceeded in low tones.

"We shall be in Larchmont to-morrow," Mary was saying. "I'll try to send you a note from there. After that I'll keep you informed as well as I can concerning the rest of the trip, so you can reach me, if it's necessary. We are not traveling on any fixed time-table."

"I'll feel dreadfully lonely, Mary."

"I'd have brought you if I could, Nell; but there wasn't any legitimate excuse. And besides, I don't think you're strong enough to attempt it."

"If there was only somebody staying behind that I knew," Nell sighed. "I'll be so helpless."

"Nonsense. Besides, who would stay behind?"

Nell did not answer, but if Pete Stearns could have read a fleeting thought from his point of observation on the street corner his waistcoat buttons would doubtless have gone flying. Mary Wayne, however, read the thought.

"You don't mean that valet who brought you home from the party?" she demanded suddenly.

"Oh, I didn't mean anybody particularly," answered Nell, guiltily. "But of course even he would be better than nobody."

"Nell Norcross, don't let that young man get into your head. There's something mysterious about him. He may be only a valet, but I'm not certain. I'm suspicious of him. He has a habit of forgetting himself."

"I know," assented Nell, nodding.

"Oh, you do, do you? I might have guessed it. Take my advice and give him a wide berth."

Nell regarded her friend with a look of speculative anxiety.

"Of course, Mary, I don't want to interfere with you in any way. But——"

"Interfere with me?" exclaimed Mary sharply. "Do you think I am interested in valets?"

"But you thought he might be something else. At least, you hinted it. He's a divinity student, isn't he?"

"Divinity!" Mary summoned all her scorn in that word. "Oh, very likely. But what sort of a divinity is he studying? Perhaps you're a candidate for the place."

"Mary Wayne, you're mean! I think that's a nasty remark."

"Oh, well; I didn't mean it. But you'd better take my advice, just the same. I've seen much more of him than you have."

Nell sighed again.

"Now, my dear, I must be going back. They'll be sending out a general alarm for me, I suppose. I didn't ask anybody's permission to come, you see."

"There isn't much doubt Mr. Marshall will be alarmed," remarked Nell, who was not above seeking a legitimate revenge.

"You're in a rather silly mood this evening," said Mary. "Well, good-by. I'll send you some more money as soon as I'm paid again."

Nell looked gratefully at a small roll of bills that lay in her hand.

"You're awfully good to me," she murmured. "Good-by. And if you see——"

But Mary ran down the steps, popped into the taxi and was driven off.

Pete Stearns aroused himself, crossed the street, and walked briskly in the direction of the boarding-house. He arrived in time to intercept Nell, who had risen to go in. She sat down again in sheer surprise, and Pete seated himself without invitation on the step below.

"It's a fine night, isn't it?" he said. "Now what's your real name?"

Nell gasped and could only stare.

"Is it Wayne?" he demanded.

"Of—of course, it is!"

"I just wanted to see if I'd forgotten. Sometimes my memory walks out on me. Amnesia, you know. It's lucky I never suffered from aphasia. A bishop with aphasia wouldn't be able to hold his job. Let's talk about the bishops."

And he did, for ten solid minutes, until Nell began seriously to wonder if he was in his right mind. Suddenly he dropped the subject.

"You said your name was Wayne, didn't you?"

"Why in the world do you keep asking that?" she parried.

"It's the amnesia. Excuse it, please. Now let's talk about ourselves."

Eventually he said good night; he would be delaying the yacht, he explained. But he promised to write, which was something that had not even been hinted at during the conversation. He also shook hands with her, begged her to have faith in him, urged her to believe nothing she might hear, reaffirmed his purpose to become a bishop and perhaps even an archbishop, told her that she inspired him to great things, as witness—a kiss that landed on the end of her nose. Then he ran.

Nell Norcross was still sitting on the top step half an hour later, trying to muster sufficient confidence for the climb up-stairs.

At about the same time Bill Marshall was taking leave of a friend in the back room of a hostelry that had descended to the evil fortunes of selling near-beer.

"I'm sorry I won't be able to be there, Kid," he said, "but go to it and don't worry about any cops butting in to bust up the game."

"I'll run it strictly Q. T., Bill. Doncha worry about nothin'."

"I won't. But I owe you that much for the way they chucked you out of the house the other night."

"'Sall right, 'sall right," said Kid Whaley with a generous wave of his hand. "They didn't hurt me none."

Bill handed him something, and the Kid pocketed it with a wink.

"I'd like to take you with me, Kid; but you understand."

"Aw, sure. Sure—I'm wise. I ain't strong for yachtin', anyhow. That's why I blew me roll in a buzz-wagon. Well, s'long, Bill. This here little scrap's goin' t' be a bird. I'll tell y' all about it."

When Mary Wayne arrived at the wharf there was no sign of the launch. She remembered that she had said nothing about the time of her return. Out in the river she could see the riding lights of the Sunshine and the glow from the saloon windows. But she had not the least idea of how to make a signal, nor any notion that they would understand a signal. The wharf was lonely. It seemed to her, as she seated herself on the string-piece, that she was as remote from civilization as though she were sitting at the north pole, although she knew there were seven or eight million people within a radius of a few miles. There was nothing to do but wait, even if it was a creepy place for waiting.

She had been sitting there for what seemed like half the night when a sound of footsteps startled her. Out of the murk a figure was approaching. An instant later, to her relief, she perceived it to be the valet.

He bowed in his mock deferential way and seated himself beside her.

"No launch?" he inquired.

"I forgot to speak to them."

"So did I. Well, the yacht's there, anyhow, miss. They won't leave without us. Is Miss Wayne better?"

Mary experienced a shock. She leaned closer toward him and stared through the gloom.

"You followed me!" she exclaimed.

"I'd hardly say that, miss. You see, I was quite certain where you were going."

She had an impulse to sweep him off into the water.

"I shall speak to Mr. Marshall about this," she said hotly. "I do not propose to be spied upon by a servant."

Pete made a gesture of deprecation.

"Why be nasty, miss? Let's talk about something pleasanter. You know, if we both started telling all we knew there might be a great deal of embarrassment."

"Just what do you mean by that?" she demanded.

"I leave it to your imagination," he said cryptically.

"I can tell things myself," she said savagely.

"Exactly, miss. So why shouldn't we be friends? Why can't we establish a real democracy? I won't always be a valet; some day I'll be a bishop."

"I believe you're nothing but a fraud!"

"Well, now," observed Pete in a mild tone, "I might remark, on the other hand—but I think the master is coming."

Mary jumped to her feet with a sense of confusion. There was no doubt that the large figure emerging out of the darkness was that of Bill Marshall. How was she to explain the valet?

"Oh, hello!" said Bill as he identified her. "Waiting here all alone, eh? Well, that's a darn shame. Hasn't the launch—oh!" He discovered the presence of Pete Stearns. "Didn't know you had company," he added, his tone altering. "Beg your pardon."

"I—I haven't," said Mary, defiantly.

"I'll see if there's any sign of the launch." Bill walked to the end of the wharf, where he stood staring at the river, raging with and almost bursting with questions that he scorned to ask.

"Why didn't you explain to him?" snapped Mary, whirling upon Pete.

"I pass the question back to you, miss." And Pete lighted a cigarette, the glow of the match illuminating for an instant a pair of eyes that were regarding her with unveiled amusement.

When the launch came, after an uncomfortably long interval, Bill helped her into it, with cold courtesy. The valet scrambled aboard and took himself off to the bow. All the way to the Sunshine the three sat in silence—Bill smoldering with anger and curiosity, Mary humiliated and resentful, Pete content because they were as they were.

The social secretary hastened to her stateroom as soon as she stepped aboard; she did not pause to speak to Aunt Caroline, who was dozing in her chair. Pete disappeared with like alacrity. It remained for Bill to arouse his aunt and suggest that it was time for her to retire.

"But Mrs. Rokeby-Jones?" asked Aunt Caroline.

"Had her on the wire; she can't come," said Bill. "Says she wrote a note, but it must have gone astray. Very sorry and all that sort of thing."

Aunt Caroline sighed.

"At any rate, I have done my duty, William. When do we sail?"

"Soon."

Bill went forward to give an order to the sailing-master.