Admiral Pachmann turned into his berth, that night, extremely well-satisfied with himself, for he was convinced that the cards were in his hands and the game as good as won. And what a game! For his King, world-empire; for himself—but the Admiral did not permit himself to name the reward. He knew well that he would not be forgotten when the moment came for the distribution of honours. Was not the whole plan his? Had he not worked it out to its minutest detail? Had he not carried it through? And how adroitly, how triumphantly! Even the Emperor would have to acknowledge that!

Let us do the Admiral justice: he loved his country, he was ready at any moment to lay down his life for her, he would have laboured just as earnestly without hope of other reward than the sight of her aggrandisement: but, just the same, when the honours came, he was not one to refuse them! World-empire would mean governorships, suzerainties....

He was lying in his berth next morning, half dozing, smiling to himself as all this passed before his mind in august and glittering procession, when there came a tap at the door. He got up, opened it, and a sealed note was handed in. A glance at the other berth showed that the Prince had already risen. Pachmann tore open the note and read its contents with some astonishment. It was from the Captain, and asked for an immediate conference on a matter of great importance.

Pachmann dressed hastily, and, as he did so, considered whether he should hunt up the Prince and summon him, also, to this conference. He decided against it. He foresaw that in this affair there would be many things which it would be unwise for the Prince to know—he had sat staring like an idiot, last night, while the mad Pole raved about love and mercy and universal brotherhood; he was too young, too easily impressed, too soft of heart. He had agreed that victory must be won at any price, but Pachmann very well knew that he had no idea of how terrible that price was almost certain to be. No; the Prince must be kept as much as possible on the borders of this affair! So, having finished dressing, the Admiral went forward alone to the Captain's cabin.

He found the Captain sitting at his desk, and his face was so grave that it gave Pachmann a little start.

He rose and greeted the Admiral, and then glanced over the latter's shoulder, as though expecting to see some one else.

"You did not bring the Prince?" he asked.

"Do you think it necessary?" retorted Pachmann, tartly.

Hausmann hesitated.

"I am not, of course, aware of your relative positions in this affair," he said, finally.

"The paper I showed you yesterday should have told you that," said Pachmann quickly. "The affair has been in my hands from the first. The Prince was sent along because his father wished to separate him from a Berlin bar-maid."

"Ah, so," said the Captain, without smiling. "I understand. Be seated." He did not like Pachmann, and also, perhaps, he found the jesting reference to the royal love affairs in bad taste. "A very strange thing has occurred," he continued. "I stationed one of my men outside the door, last night, in order that you might not be interrupted."

"Yes," agreed the Admiral, "and he did his duty very well. We were not interrupted."

"He was found this morning, unconscious, in one of the boats on the upper deck."

Pachmann looked at the speaker in some surprise.

"Well," he asked, "what of it? Some sailor's row."

"I thought so too, at first. But he became conscious, just now, and declares that he was struck down from behind."

Pachmann shrugged his shoulders.

"He is probably lying. In any event, it is of no concern to me. He was on duty at the door when the conference closed."

The Captain stared at him as though not understanding.

"What is it you say?" he asked.

"I say," repeated Pachmann, impatiently, "that he was on duty when we left your cabin. What happened to him after that is of no importance."

"At what hour did you leave?" asked the Captain, still staring.

"About midnight. Why do you look at me like that?"

"The man swears," said Hausmann, slowly, "that he was struck down soon after you entered the cabin."

Pachmann jumped in his chair.

"He says that!" he gasped. "But that is impossible—he is lying!"

"Perhaps you would wish to interrogate him?" Hausmann suggested.

Pachmann nodded mutely, and the Captain touched a bell.

"Send Schroeder here," he said to the man who answered.The man saluted and closed the door again, and the Captain and his visitor sat looking at each other in silence. Both were disturbed; but Pachmann was by far the more dismayed of the two. To his companion, it was merely a fracture of the discipline of his ship; but to Pachmann it was the end of the world! Try as he might to maintain his self-composure, he could not stop the nervous trembling of his hands; and from time to time he moistened his lips and swallowed with great effort. He felt himself stricken to the heart; he scarcely dared permit himself to think what it meant for him, for his King, for Germany, if this man spoke the truth.

And then the door opened and the man himself entered—a typical German sailor, with bronzed countenance, and short curly brown beard, and honest blue eyes—not too intelligent, but faithful, strong and dependable. Yes, and honest—one could see that. He was barefooted and clad in a suit of duck, which had been white originally but was now much soiled. About his head was a bandage. He saluted and stood at attention, while Pachmann looked him over.

"Tell us what occurred last night," the Captain ordered. "Think carefully and omit nothing."

"There is not much to tell, sir," the man replied. "You yourself gave me my orders. I was to stand out there, before the door, and prevent any one knocking. To all who asked for you, I was to say that you were on the bridge."

The Captain nodded.

"That is right," he said. "Continue."

"You then went up to the bridge, and I took the station you had assigned me. I did not know who was in the cabin, but I could hear voices."

"Ah! cried Pachmann, with a frown. "You could hear voices! Could you also hear words?"

"I do not know, sir; I did not listen. I know better than to listen when officers are talking."

"Continue," said the Captain again.

"I stood there for perhaps ten minutes. There were a few passengers strolling about farther down the deck, but you had caused a rope to be stretched across to prevent any one coming as far as your cabin."

Again the Captain nodded.

"Yes, I took that precaution, also," he said.

"Then," concluded Schroeder, "something struck me a great blow on the head, and I knew no more until I awoke to find the doctor working over me."

Pachmann looked at him searchingly for several minutes, but the man met his gaze without flinching.

"Are you sure that is all?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"You do not remember standing at the door, when it was opened, and saluting the gentlemen who came out?"

"No, sir; I remember nothing of that."

"You say you were at the door only ten minutes?"

"It may have been a little longer than that, sir; a very little."

"Have you had a quarrel with any member of the crew?"

"No, sir; I am on good terms with all of them."

"Think carefully; is there not one who might have wished to revenge himself?"

But Schroeder shook his head decidedly.

"It was no member of the crew, sir; not one of them is my enemy."

"Then who was it?" Pachmann demanded.

"That I cannot say, sir."

"You heard nothing before the blow was struck?"

"Nothing, sir; I have told you all I remember."

"And you persist that you have no idea who struck the blow?"

"I have not the slightest idea, sir."

Pachmann looked at Schroeder again, and then turned away.

"That is all," said the Captain; "and remember, you are to speak of this to no one."

"Yes, sir," said Schroeder, and withdrew.Pachmann took a turn about the cabin, frowning heavily.

"What do you make of it?" he asked, at last.

"It seems plain enough," Hausmann answered. "Some one knocked Schroeder down and took his place at the door."

"Yes, yes," said Pachmann, impatiently. "But who was it, and what was his purpose?"

"His purpose, also, seems clear to me," said the Captain, quietly. "He wished to hear what was going on in my cabin."

"He was a member of your crew," said Pachmann. "I saw him—he was barefooted—he wore a uniform."

"Did you see his face? Would you know him again?"

Pachmann hesitated.

"I fear not. He was standing in the shadow, and I was preoccupied and barely glanced at him. I cannot even say that it was not Schroeder."

"I do not believe it was any member of my crew," said the Captain.

"Then who was it?"

"That, of course, I cannot say. But why should one of my crew do such a thing?"

"There may be a traitor among them."

"We know the history of every man. They are all good Germans. We are very careful. But even if there was a traitor, how would he know of this conference?"

Pachmann threw up his hands with a gesture of despair, and dropped into a chair.

"How would any one know?" he demanded. "I mentioned it to no one but the Prince and yourself. Vard himself did not know of it till I summoned him."

Hausmann looked at the speaker steadily.

"I trust that you are not insinuating that it is I who am the traitor?" he asked.

"No, no," protested Pachmann hastily. "I tell you this in order that you may realise how incredible this is to me. After all, it may have been a member of the crew who knew nothing of the conference—who was there by accident at the moment we came out."

"I do not see," the Captain began, but a knock at the door stopped him. "Come in!" he called, and the wardrobe-steward entered. "Well, what is it?"

"I have to report, sir," answered the steward, "that a suit of white duck has been stolen."

Hausmann could not refrain from casting a glance of triumph at the Admiral.

"When did you discover it?" he asked."Only a few minutes ago, sir. I reported to the head-steward, and he told me to come at once to you."

"That was right. Do you know when it was stolen?"

"Sometime during the night, sir. It had been washed and returned to me yesterday evening not quite dry. I hung it before a ventilator and when I went for it this morning, it was no longer there."

"Very well," said the Captain. "I will investigate the matter," and the steward left the cabin. Hausmann looked at his companion. "You see, it was not one of the crew," he said.

Pachmann was out of his chair and striding savagely up and down, his self-control completely broken down. He had fancied himself quite safe, and here he was tottering on the edge of an abyss.

"It is evidently the work of a spy," added Hausmann, who, perhaps, was not wholly displeased that the Admiral should have met with a reverse. "There can be no doubt of it! We know that LÉpine suspects something. This is probably one of his men—and a most daring and resourceful one."

"If that is true," said Pachmann, hoarsely, "he must not leave this ship alive! We must find him. And we must watch the wireless. Every message must be most carefully inspected."

"I will see that that is done," Hausmann agreed. "But to find the man—how do you propose to accomplish that?"

"When do your officers start their examination of the passengers for the immigration record?"

"They can start at once, if you wish."

"I do wish; and I wish also to be present."

"Very well," agreed the Captain. "We will start immediately after breakfast."

"You could be of very great help, Captain," Pachmann added, "if you would go over the passenger-list and check off the passengers with whom you are personally acquainted. No doubt you know a great many of them?"

"Yes; but the purser knows even more. Shall I ask him also to check the list?"

"If you will. It would save much time."

"You will understand," said Hausmann, slowly, "that I feel I should know more of this affair before I consent to take an active part in it; but I can, at least, save the passengers whom I know, and who are friends of mine, the annoyance of needless questioning. There is one thing more I might do; there are also on board a few men who have crossed with me before, but who, I am convinced, are not the gentlemen of wealth and leisure they pretend to be. They may be only sharpers—or they may be something else. In front of the name of each of them I will place a cross.""Thank you," said Pachmann.

"On one condition," added the Captain. "You said, but just now, that if you discovered this person, you would not permit him to leave this boat alive. That was an exaggeration, perhaps."

"Not in the least!" answered Pachmann, hoarsely. "I myself will kill him!"

"My condition, then, is," said the Captain, "that you renounce that project. I am willing that he should be detained and returned to Germany. Further than that I will not go."

Pachmann's fingers tapped the pocket of his coat.

"No," added Hausmann, "not even for that paper!"

Pachmann gazed at him a moment with distorted face. Then he nodded.

"Very well," he said; "I consent. But it is you who take the responsibility. I warn you that, if the man escapes, your career on the sea will be at an end—you will find all Germany closed against you."

"I will take the responsibility," said Hausmann, quietly. "You agree, then?"

"Yes, I agree," said Pachmann, and hurried away to get his breakfast.

And all that day, he sat beside the assistant purser, while the first-cabin passengers were called up, one by one, to make it clear that they were entitled to land in America. The questions are always searching, for the immigration laws are very strict and there are many spaces to be filled in on the great blanks which the immigration bureau furnishes; but that day they were more searching than ever—so far, at least, as the male passengers were concerned. In the women, Pachmann did not interest himself, for he took it for granted that no woman could have struck Schroeder senseless with a single blow; but on every man he directed the severest scrutiny.

Even if the name had been checked by the Captain or purser on the list he held in his hand, he never failed to satisfy himself by a few questions; and the unfortunate possessors of the names before which a cross appeared had reason to remember that interrogation all their lives. With some three or four of them, the interrogation was continued in private and even extended to a search of their belongings and a scrutiny of every document in their possession; but, while some of them were forced to confess at last that they were adventurers, gamblers, with only such means of livelihood as their wits procured them, there was nothing to show that any of them was the agent of any government.

All day Saturday the examination was continued, and by dinner-time the first-class list was completed, much to the relief of the passengers, who came away from the interrogation with ruffled tempers and a feeling of humiliation. All sorts of rumours were afloat among them. There was an absconder on board, a murderer, a political refugee, an eloping couple—the customs authorities had got wind of the fact that there was a celebrated smuggler on board, and every passenger was to be searched when he reached the pier—the rumours ran the gamut of all crimes and all scandals, and made every one extremely uncomfortable, but none of them touched the truth.

And Pachmann had to confess himself, thus far, defeated. There remained the second-class, and he determined to scrutinise it even more closely than he had the first. The thought that he might fail, after all, dismayed him. To fail meant disgrace—personal, irremediable disgrace; it meant the betrayal of his Emperor; worse than that, in his failure France would triumph! He trembled with anguish—not wholly for himself, for he was a brave man and a patriot—but for his Fatherland.

So Saturday evening came, and with it the hour of the second conference.

For the other personages of this story, those two days had been rather eventless ones. The weather continued fine and the great ship ploughed steadily westward. The passengers got to know each other; little cliques were formed, centring about mutual acquaintances; there were card-parties, dances, the inevitable concert, dinners in the cafÉ, the usual pools, the usual night-long games of poker, the usual excitements of passing ships and schools of dolphins—in a word, the usual procession of trivial incidents which make up life on a great liner.

But in this life, Ignace Vard and his daughter had no part. Their meals were served in their sitting-room, so that they missed that great acquaintance-maker, the dinner table. Kasia, remembering the warning she had received, kept aloof from every one; and Vard's ironical manner was enough to keep every one aloof from him. However he did not notice it, for he had discovered, among the books in the library, three novels by Mr. John Galsworthy, and they absorbed him. He had been looking through the books rather hopelessly, when the title, "The Island Pharisees," had caught his eye. He opened the book, read a page, took it to his room and finished it at a sitting. Its irony expressed him precisely, and over the letter of apology and adieu from the wandering Frenchman to the lady of the manor he fairly wept with joy. After that came "Fraternity" and "The Man of Property," so that for him the two days passed quickly. One thing about these books he could not understand—that they should have been written by an Englishman!

Kasia did not return to the rendezvous on the after boat-deck. Something held her back—an emotion of shyness new to her. But on Saturday afternoon, Dan ran the blockade of the after companion-way, penetrated brazenly to the first-class promenade, joined her where she stood leaning against the rail, and led her away resolutely to a seat on the upper deck.

"Is this the way to treat an old friend?" he demanded. "Are you aware that I sat for hours, last night...."

She laid a warning finger on his sleeve.

"We must not run any risk," she said, in a low tone. "No one must suspect that we know each other."

His face brightened. She had accepted the term "old friend," without appearing surprised by it.

"Was that the reason?"

She nodded.

"You wanted to come?"

Another nod.

Dan breathed a long sigh of happiness.

"That makes it all right," he said. "I forgive you. And after you're ashore I may come to see you?"

"Certainly you may!"

"What is your address?"

"Two hundred and ten West Sixty-fourth Street."

He made a note of it.

"May I come the first evening?"She laughed a delicious laugh—a laugh of pure joy. There was nothing of the coquette about Kasia. She was all woman.

"If you wish," she said.

"Thank you—I do wish. Besides, I shall have something to return to you."

"Hush!" she cautioned, with a frightened glance around. "Do not speak of it. And I must be going. We must not sit here so long together."

He sighed.

"I suppose you are right," he agreed. "But every evening I shall sit on a certain bench and think of you. And, remember, the first evening on land is mine."

"I shall remember."

"Good-bye till then," he said, and rose.

"Good-bye, my friend."

Her eyes were shining. He dared not trust himself to look at them a second time, but turned himself about, by main force, as it were, and marched himself off, straight along the deck, down the ladder, and up again to "a certain bench."

And there, presently, M. Chevrial joined him, but for once Dan found that witty Frenchman something of a bore.