By Right of Conquest: A Novel

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WHAT RIGHT HAD HE TO ACCOST HER?
Frontispiece. Chap. XVII. Page 282.

BY RIGHT OF CONQUEST

a Novel

BY

ARTHUR HORNBLOW

Author of "The Profligate," "The End of the Game,"

"The Lion and the Mouse" (from the play), etc.

Illustrations by

ARCHIE GUNN and CHARLES GRUNWALD

G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY

PUBLISHERS

NEW YORK

Copyright, 1909,

By

G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY.

CONTENTS.

ILLUSTRATIONS.

CHAPTER I.

In a dark, dirty, foul-smelling room back of a small ship-chandler's store on West Street, four sailormen were seated at a table, drinking, quarreling, cursing. The bottle from which they had imbibed too freely contained a villainous compound that ensured their host a handsome profit, set their brains afire, and degraded them to the level of the beast. Not that their condition in life was much better than that of the dumb brute. Animals often enjoy more creature comforts, are better housed and more kindly treated.

They were not really sailors, for in their long experience on the high seas they had never reefed a sail or hauled on a rope. Only too often they never got so much as a glimpse of God's blue sky or the immense stretches of tumbling, foaming ocean. They were the galley-slaves of modern seagoing—the stokers, the men with oily skin and heat-bleared eyes, who toil naked in the bowels of the giant steamship, each crew doing its "watch" of four hours in a dark pit at the bottom of the huge vessel, deprived of air and sunlight, firemen and trimmers working feverishly in a maddening temperature of 140 degrees and over, thrusting and pulling with rod and rake in the insatiable maw of the raging furnace. The hot blasts scorch the men's faces and blister their skins, yet they are compelled to keep up the furious pace. They must never slacken, for on their muscles and their nerves depend the speed of the ship and the prestige of the line. So they shovel faster and faster, tirelessly, endlessly, the flying coal-dust settling on their sweating faces and bare bodies until they lose semblance to anything human and recall those lurid pictures of the Inferno in which Satan's imps, armed with pitch-forks, thrust back shrieking sinners, condemned to everlasting torment, who are struggling to escape from the bottomless pit. That the luxurious liner may break a record and retain the patronage of the millionaire passengers reclining indolently on the promenade-decks above, the unknown, unseen slaves in the hellish regions below must shovel, shovel, shovel, always faster, faster until at last nature gives way. Exhausted by fatigue, overcome by the killing heat, the man falls headlong. They pick him up and carry him on deck, where the pure air may or may not revive him. Perhaps he is already dead. His filthy, almost unearthly appearance chills the sympathies of the fastidious cabin passengers. Who is he? What's happened? "Only a stoker!" yawns some one, and all go unconcernedly down to dinner.

The time passed and the men still loafed in the chandler's shop, drinking and arguing. The day was already advanced, the active, busy world without summoned them urgently to duty, at noon their ship would cast off her moorings and steam majestically out to sea, and yet the four firemen sat idly in the evil-smelling den, noisy in drunken argument—all but one man, a big, athletic-looking fellow, who drank in sullen silence. Occasionally one of them would stop and glance furtively in the direction of the street, as if apprehensive that an unwelcome visitor might suddenly put in an appearance.

But no one disturbed them, not even Schmalz, the proprietor of the place, a fat, tousled-headed German, who found his customers too profitable to quarrel with. As fast as bottles were emptied, he replaced them, and that he sold liquor without going through the formalities of procuring a license was evident from his catlike movements, the absence of any outward signs of the clandestine traffic, and his extreme care to keep the inner room and its occupants well secluded from observation.

The outer shop was typical of the many nautical stores of its kind scattered along New York's waterfront. It contained everything a sailor needs, from yellow oilskins, thick woolen socks, and blue jerseys to fried herrings, pickles, and mustard plasters. The atmosphere was heavy with an agglomeration of different and conflicting smells—fish, tar, paint, garbage, and stale tobacco. From time to time customers dropped in, and Schmalz, shrewd and urbane, exercised his talents inducing them to buy, the while keeping one cautious eye on his open money-drawer, the other on his boisterous patrons in the inner room.

From the street came refreshing whiffs of salty air and the roar of heavy traffic rolling along the busy thoroughfare. Trucks groaning and creaking under mountains of merchandise, cabs filled with travelers and piled high with baggage, slowly threading their way in and out to trains and steamers, rickety horse-cars, crowded to the guard-rails, hucksters' push-carts, piled high with decaying fruit, bewildered immigrants, fresh from the Old World, nimble commuters from the suburbs hurrying to and from the ferries—all these, men, horses, and vehicles were tangled up in seeming hopeless confusion. Along the water's edge, where the four-mile line of docks sheltered the world's shipping, arose a forest of ship-masts, with here and there gigantic funnels of ocean liners, belching smoke as they made ready for their journey to the sea. From mid-river came the shrill tooting of mosquito-like tugs, and the churning sound of ferry-boats as they glided from shore to shore.

"Naw, Jack, my boy, it's too blarsted risky," said decisively one of the four, a short, stocky man, with a pock-marked face and cockney accent. "'Tain't no good arguin' an' chewin' the rag any longer, ye know. I won't do it, an' that's all there's to it."

"Shorty's dead right," spoke up another of the men, as he drained his glass. "We'd be caught, sure as yer name's Jack Armitage."

"Bah!" grunted the third man. "Wot's the good of kickin'? If it isn't one thing, it's another—so wot's the use?"

The foregoing remarks were directed principally at the big, straight-limbed fellow who sat at the table in sullen silence, his face buried in his folded arms. He vouchsafed no answer to his comrades' arguments. Lifting his head, he turned his bloodshot eyes on them, and, as if to show his utter contempt for their opinion, he shrugged his massive shoulders and, picking up the whiskey-bottle, refilled his glass.

Apparently a few years younger than his associates, he was a clean-cut, good-looking fellow with a smooth face, and regular features, and there was something in his manner, an air of authority in the toss of his head, which suggested that he might be fashioned of a different clay, yet his grimy skin and oil-stained, coal-blackened clothes indicated that his condition of life was the same. His eyes were red from drinking and there were grim lines about his mouth that prompted his companions to leave him to himself. They knew their customer.

In the stokers' forecastle Jack Armitage had made himself quickly known as a man whom it was unwise to monkey with. Directly he joined the ship, he gave them to understand that clearly. The cock of the boiler-room, a bully who had heretofore run things to suit himself, rashly started an argument with the newcomer, and before he knew what had hit him, he was a fit subject for the hospital. Quick to admire physical strength, his comrades respected Armitage after that episode, and they nicknamed him Gentleman Jack, because his English was straighter than theirs and because he appeared to have known better days. Sometimes they hailed him as "Handsome," because of his shape, regular features and wavy hair. Of his history they knew nothing, and seeing that he was moody and uncommunicative, no one ventured to arouse his wrath by asking questions that he might consider too personal. Besides, no one cared. There's no "Who's Who?" in a steamer's stoke-hold. A natural refuge for the scum of the cities—for those wanted by the police as well as for those who have failed—even a detective will hesitate to follow his quarry into the red jaws of hell itself. To this, as much as anything else, the stoke-hold owes its reputation as the modern Sanctuary.

So they let Armitage alone. He did his "shift" along with the rest, gaining promotion first as coal-passer, then as trimmer, then as fireman. His services were valued because of his great strength and power of endurance. He could go on raking and pulling out fires long after his mate had fallen back exhausted. But with his superiors he was not very popular. Discontented, intolerant of discipline, mutinous, he was nearly always in trouble, and, owing to his violent, uncontrollable temper, quarrels were incessant even with his comrades. They feared him more than they loved him, and perhaps this explained why his present attempt to induce them to desert ship just before sailing-time had not met with much success.

The first speaker went on:

"They'll catch ye, it's a cinch! Then it'll go hard wid ye. 'Tain't no worser for you than for the rest of us. The boiler-room's bad enough, I grant ye that, but it's a darn sight better than goin' to jail. What do you say, Dutch?" he demanded, turning to another.

Armitage maintained his sulky silence. The man called "Dutch," a lantern-jawed chap with red hair and a squint, expectorated a long stream of saliva on the floor before replying. Shifting his quid, he said:

"I guess Shorty's right, Jack. I ain't no fonder of doin' the suicide act in that hell-hole than ye is yerself. I'd quit right now, and never want to see the sight of a bloomin' ship again. But we've signed for the voyage, ain't we? We must grin and bear it for another trip. The law gives 'em the right on us. I'm goin' back now, before I'm taken back. What d'ye say, Bill?"

Bill, already half-seas over, nodded in a stupid, maudlin manner. He had drunk so much that he could hardly keep his head up, and the words came thickly from his lips:

"Desert ship?—hie! No, siree! Hie! Ye remember—Robinson, who tried to beat it at Naples? Hie! They didn't do a thing to him—almost fed the bloody furnace with him, that's all! No, siree, no pier-head jumps for me!"

The clock in the outer shop struck eleven. Shorty jumped to his feet.

"Say, lads!" he exclaimed, with another nervous glance toward the street. "The blessed ship sails in another hour. We'll be missed and they'll be after us, sure as yer born. I'm goin' back right now. Who's comin'?"

Bill and "Dutch" staggered with difficulty to their feet. While Shorty settled accounts with the urbane Schmalz, "Dutch" turned to Armitage, who remained seated at the table.

"Ain't ye goin' back, Jack?" he demanded, as he shot with expert aim another stream of saliva into Schmalz's cracked cuspidor.

Armitage raised his head and glared at them. There was a look in his face that made "Dutch" wince. Hoarsely, savagely he burst out:

"You call yourselves men! You're nothing but a lot of white-livered, whining curs! You've had a taste of hell in that ship, and you want to go back and endure another three months of it, because you haven't manhood enough to put an end to it. I'll not sail, I tell you. They'll never take me back, do you hear?"

"Does ye mean ye goin' to desert?" demanded Shorty, eyeing the big fellow with astonishment.

The other two men stared at him, open-mouthed. "Dutch" scratched his head, and, to better conceal his emotion, let go another flyer of saliva at the cuspidor. Then, with great deliberation, he bit off another chew of tobacco, and said, with a nasal drawl:

"P'r'aps we might make so bold as to inquire of the gen'l'man what 'ee's goin' ter do fer a livin'. I allus suspected he didn't 'ave ter work if 'ee didn't 'ave ter. But if 'ee's come in for a fortune 'ee might let 'is pals know summat about it."

"I guess 'ee's gwine ter be a bloomin' bondholder and cut his coupons!" grinned Bill, in a feeble attempt at jocularity.

Armitage bit his lip and scowled. He was in no humor for jests, and his hand moved dangerously in the direction of the empty whiskey-bottle. Bill ducked and the other men immediately gave the table a wider berth. Shorty cast another nervous glance at the clock.

"Come, boys," he said impatiently. "We ain't got no time to lose. Stop yer foolin', Armitage. Let's get back to the ship, or there'll be the devil to pay."

There was a moment of silent suspense. The other men looked toward Armitage, who did not stir. Shorty stepped forward and shook him by the arm. Armitage jerked himself free with an oath, and, raising his fist, powerful as a sledge-hammer, brought it down on the table with a force that made the glasses dance. His eyes literally blazed with fury as he turned on his comrades.

"Go and be damned!" he shouted. "Go back to the ship and tell 'em to count me out. I'll go to hell soon enough without getting hell here, too. Don't worry about what'll become of me. I guess I'll be all right. Anyhow, I'm not goin' back, do ye hear? If I was a coward, afraid to call my soul my own, like you fellows, it'd be different. But I ain't!"

Shorty flushed up. He had been a champion light-weight boxer before things went wrong and he took to the sea, and he resented this reflection on his personal courage. He had not yet had an encounter with Armitage, but he knew enough of the science of self-defense not to be as much intimidated by the big fellow as were the rest of his shipmates. Advancing spunkily, he retorted:

"No man ever yet called me a coward, 'Handsome,' an' I ain't goin' to take it from you. If it comes to a showdown, the coward's the chap as deserts 'is ship, not the chap as stands by 'is signed articles."

Armitage sprang to his feet, his six feet of athletic masculinity towering above them all.

"Clear out! Clear out!" he shouted, wildly waving his arms. "Clear out before I kill one of you!"

Bill and "Dutch" obeyed with almost ludicrous alacrity, and retreated into the outer shop, but Shorty pluckily stood his ground. Before Armitage could lay hands on him, the cockney closed to the attack, a sinewy arm shot out like a flash, and there was a thundering smack as the blow went home on Armitage's jaw.

For a brief moment the athlete staggered, but more from sheer surprise than anything else. Then, with a volley of fierce expletives, he made a savage rush at his adversary. The men clinched, arms and legs whirled around in a cyclone of dust, tables and chairs were sent crashing to all corners of the room. It was all over in a minute. By the time Schmalz, terrified by the noise of the fracas, ran in to see what was the matter, Shorty was lying on his back on the floor, bleeding profusely from the nose.

While Bill and "Dutch" helped the worsted ex-champion to a chair, Armitage coolly readjusted the rest of the scattered furniture, and, resuming his seat at the table, bellowed at Schmalz, who stood, open-mouthed:

"Don't stand grinning there, you blamed fool! Let's have some more whiskey. This scrapping makes one thirsty."

Schmalz hesitated. He stood in no little fear of his burly customer. On the other hand, it was dangerous to let him go on drinking. There was no telling what he might do. He looked from Shorty, who was trying to stop his nose-bleed, to the broken glasses on the floor.

"I guess you haf enough alretty yet," he growled.

Armitage struck the table viciously.

"Don't stand chinning there!" he shouted. "Bring some booze on the double quick, or it'll be the worse for you!"

With a helpless shrug of his shoulders, Schmalz went after more liquor. Shorty, partly recovered from the knock-out, staggered painfully to his feet and made for the door, followed by "Dutch" and Bill. When he reached the threshold, the defeated fireman turned and shook his fist at Armitage.

"Yer'll be sorry for this, 'Handsome'!" he shouted. "I'll get even with ye afore the day's out."

Armitage shrugged his shoulders by way of answer, and the three men slouched out. As Shorty passed Schmalz in the outer store, he said to the German in an undertone:

"Look out for him, d'ye hear? He's a bad 'un. He's not to be trusted!"

Jerking his thumb significantly in the direction of the cash-drawer, he whispered:

"He'd as soon cut your throat as not—for what ye've got there."

Schmalz turned pale. Shorty went on:

"I've got an account to square with him. Give him all the whiskey he wants. Keep him here until we can get back to the steamer. They'll come and nab him. Serve him right. He's better out of yer way."

"Ya-ya!" exclaimed Schmalz nervously, "But mach schnell, eh?"

The men hurried away, leaving their irate shipmate to his own reflexions. For a long time after their departure there reigned a perfect quiet, which seemed all the more intense by contrast with the recent turmoil. Schmalz, busy at his desk, absorbed in the arduous task of disentangling his accounts, gave no heed to his quarrelsome customer, who, now that the immediate cause of his irritation was removed, was inclined to be more amiable. His sullenness of manner disappeared and he seemed even willing to argue amicably with his host the merits of the recent affray. Schmalz paid no attention, yet the fireman talked on. It wasn't his fault, he insisted. Shorty had called him names, and he wouldn't stand that from any man. He knew what he was about. Flesh and blood simply couldn't stand that stoke-hold any longer. Only the last trip, one of the men collapsed under the strain. Seized with "stoker's madness," he had rushed to the deck and jumped overboard. He'd had enough of such horrors. He'd die rather than return to the ship.

"D'ye hear, Schmalz?" he shouted, to better attract his host's attention. "I tell ye I'm through with seagoing. They'll never get me back!"

Schmalz, however, turned a deaf ear. He was unwilling or else too busy to listen. So, finding that he had no one to whom he could impart his sorrows, Armitage turned once more to the whiskey-bottle, with the idea of drowning them. The strong liquor soon had the effect of making him drowsy. His head dropped heavily on his broad chest and his snores shook the room.

He might have slept in this way for hours without disturbance, only Schmalz clumsily dropped a tray, and the sudden crash aroused the stoker with a start. Rubbing his eyes, he turned eagerly to the clock, and a look of satisfaction overspread his face. The Atlanta would soon be on her way to the Mediterranean. Half an hour more and he would have nothing to fear. They would have sailed without him. Then he need skulk no longer in this den. He could go forth a free man, at liberty to do what he chose.

But as his befuddled brain began to clear, he grew uneasy. He knew the boiler-room was short-handed. They must have discovered his absence. Shorty and the others, in revenge, would be likely to peach on him and say where he was to be found. The officers would come after him and drag him back to that abominable stoke-hold. He knew enough of the shipping laws to be aware that they had the right. He being an English fireman in a foreign port, all they had to do was to go before the British consul and secure his arrest. Putting his hand to his hip pocket, he drew out a revolver and regarded lovingly its polished surface.

"My only friend!" he muttered. "Let 'em come! I'll give 'em all the fight they want—more than they want! I'll put a bullet through my own head rather than be dragged back to that stoke-hold!"

And if the Atlanta sailed without him—what then? He had had enough of the sea, that was certain, yet he must earn a living somehow. He hadn't a dollar in the world, and he knew no trade that he could turn his hand to. His life at sea had unfitted him for anything else. Even if he made the effort and let the whiskey alone, how could he seek employment looking as he did? With no linen and in his grimy, oil-stained clothes, he would be eyed everywhere with suspicion. Nobody would have anything to do with him. The world has no use for its failures, for men who are down on their luck. The outlook was hopeless, for he saw no way to improve his condition.

"It's easy to lose one's self-respect and sink into degradation," he muttered bitterly to himself; "and when at last you see your folly, then it's too late—it's impossible to get back. Pshaw! What's the good?"

With a shaking hand, he helped himself to another drink, grateful to the lethal liquor which dulled his thoughts. Yet, in spite of himself, his clouded brain remained active. Memory slipped back ten years. If only those years could be lived over again! How dearly he had paid for the follies which had brought him where he was! Wild oats? Yes—he had sown them in plenty, and a damnable harvest he had reaped! Things had gone from bad to worse, until one day came the crisis. He was down and out, almost starving, without a friend to extend a helping hand. After he had fasted forty-eight hours, and the river seemed to be the only way out, a barroom companion told him of a job as coal-passer on an ocean liner which was to be had for the asking. He jumped eagerly at the chance as a drowning man grasps at a drifting straw. At least, it would mean temporary food and lodging. He was strong as an ox and could stand the pace, no matter how hard the work was. Besides, hidden away in a steamer's stoke-hold, he reckoned out that he would be dead to the world. No one would think of seeking him there. The brutal work and brutal companions would help him to forget the past.

For five long years he had stood it, but he could endure it no longer. Five years of physical and mental torment, and the future—a hopeless blank. The old days were wiped out completely, every decent tie shattered forever. He could never redeem the past. He had joined the vast army of life's failures, which goes marching on, silently, grimly to perdition. The sooner the end came the better. He was weary of it all. The best way would be to make an end of it at once. He knew he had only himself to blame, but, like most men who have gone to the devil, he held society responsible. The world is without pity for those who make mistakes. The man who's down is given no mercy. They said he was quarrelsome, a trouble-maker. So he was. In all these years of suffering he had steeled his heart to hate his fellow man. He detested the rich, idle class because he held it accountable for his present miserable condition, and in obscure socialistic and anarchistic meetings in the slums of New York and London he had listened gloomily to the wild-eyed orators' frenzied teachings of class-hatred. His sufferings had embittered him against the whole human race. He had fought his way through it all fiercely, because the whole world seemed in league against him, every man and woman his enemy. The only law he knew was that enforced by a strong arm. The weaker had no rights. It wasn't his fault if he had to defend himself. He had given the world back what it gave him and with interest. That's why he hit back every time blindly, savagely.

With an unsteady hand, he took up the whiskey-bottle and started to refill his glass. His back was partly toward the door, so he could not see the front store suddenly darken by the abrupt entrance of four men who pushed their way unceremoniously past Schmalz and rushed into the room where he was sitting. Two of the newcomers were ship's officers, the others were policemen.

Armitage was taken completely by surprise. He knew at once that they had come for him. With an oath, he jumped to his feet and his right hand went quickly to his hip pocket. But before he could draw his gun, the officers and policemen threw themselves upon him and pinioned his arms.

"You'd better come quickly, Armitage, or it'll go harder with you!" said the senior officer sternly.

"What d'ye want with me?" demanded the fireman hoarsely.

"You're under arrest for desertion," replied his superior.

"Where d'ye want me to go?" stammered Armitage, his breath coming and going in short, spasmodic gasps.

"Back to the ship. Not as you're much good—only to give you your medicine," was the laconic rejoinder.

"Back to the ship! Never while I live!" shouted the big fellow.

By a superhuman muscular effort he threw off his four captors as easily as if they had been children, and made a dash for liberty through the store. But he was not yet clear of his foes. Seeing him coming, Schmalz quickly put out his foot, and the fugitive fell all his length to the floor. Before he could scramble to his feet again, the policemen were upon him, and soon had his arms securely pinioned.

"Quick, back to the ship with him!" commanded the senior officer. "She sails in ten minutes. We've just time to make it!"

CHAPTER II.

The scene on the dock just before sailing-time of an ocean liner is always an animated one, full of interest and color for those having eyes to see. The huge steamer, freshly painted, all spick and span, laden to the water-line with precious freight, her enormous funnels belching clouds of black smoke, with white steam hissing from every part of her giant hulk, as if the imprisoned energy were eager to put its power to the test; the air filled with the babel of many voices, smart stewards standing at attention on the lower deck, ready to serve the embarking passengers, uniformed sailors hurrying to obey sharply given orders; officers resplendent in immaculate white duck and gold braid, solemnly promenading the bridge, as if impressed with the weight of their responsibility; excited travelers arriving in every description of vehicle; messengers rushing here and there with floral baskets and hot-house fruit sent as parting gifts; telegraph-boys bringing words of farewell; tear-stained faces smiling au revoir, handkerchiefs waving and much shouting; policemen pushing back the spectators anxious to see the last of friends and relatives; the crowd growing gradually smaller and the shouts more distant as the leviathan swings out in to the stream—all this makes up a picture which, once beheld, is forever engraved on heart and memory.

The annual around-the-world cruise of the palatial Blue Star steamer Atlanta, 17,000 tons, was always an event of more than ordinary interest, and sailing-day never failed to draw a large crowd. In fact, going down to the dock to give a noisy send-off to those friends lucky enough to be able to make the delightful Mediterranean trip had of recent years assumed the importance of a social function. The voyage being pre-eminently for health and pleasure, it generally attracted a goodly number of well-to-do and congenial people. Many of the passengers, moving in the same sets in society, were already well acquainted before going on board, and strangers had no difficulty in securing introductions. Almost as soon as the anchor was weighed, the barriers of exclusiveness were thrown down. Before the vessel had proceeded very far from port, every one knew every one else, and the ship's company had become one big jolly family.

The passenger-list contained many names well known in society. Mrs. Townsend Lee, one of the leaders of New York's 400, was on board; so was Mrs. Wesley Stuart, whose musicales were counted among the most delightful affairs of the season. Professor Hanson, the noted sociologist, was a passenger; so also was Mrs. Phelps, the wealthy young widow whose recent bereavement had made her the target of every impecunious nobleman in Europe. It was perhaps only a coincidence, yet still a fact the significance of which escaped no one, that two staterooms had been engaged—one by the Honorable Percy Fitzhugh, a callow Englishman who had made himself ridiculous with a Casino chorus-girl, the other by Count Herbert von Hatzfeld, scion of an aristocratic German family, who in a newspaper interview gave out that he was globe-trotting for his health. Gossip had linked the names of both men with Mrs. Phelps, and as neither had been at any pains to deny that he was a suitor for the widow's hand, there was considerable speculation as to whom was making most progress in her favor.

But the name on the list which excited most interest and comment among the crowd of sightseers and seagoers who literally mobbed the big ship, was that of Miss Grace Harmon, the beautiful daughter of the well-known railroad magnate, whose début in society two years before, at a splendid ball given in her honor at the Harmon's palatial Fifth Avenue home, was still talked about as the most brilliant and costly affair of that season.

Grace Harmon was conspicuous for her beauty even in a land famous for its fair women. Tall and slender, with aristocratic features and queenly carriage, she was the typical Gibson girl. Women raved about her wonderful complexion, her splendid eyes, her magnificent hair, her graceful figure. They went into ecstasies over her gowns, her beautifully arched eyebrows, academic nose, dazzling white teeth, and a sensitive, delicately modeled mouth, that might have tempted Saint Anthony himself. Men looking for money whispered that she was the prize catch of the matrimonial market, being the only heir to her father's millions, and the more enterprising laid their lines accordingly. When she went out driving or appeared in her box at the opera, everybody craned their necks and stared rudely, eager to feast their eyes on the priceless gifts this favorite of fortune had received from the gods. In their cheap hall bedrooms, timid poets wrote love-sonnets which they mailed to her anonymously, expecting no acknowledgment, happy only that they had expressed on paper what lay heavy on their hearts.

So far Grace had shown herself indifferent either to sentiment or matrimonial ambitions. She had not encouraged any of the men who showered her with attentions, and even with her intimates she declined to discuss what they declared to be the all-important question. But that eventually she would make a sensationally brilliant marriage went without the saying, and society wiseacres predicted that Prince Sergius of Eurasia, the most persistent of her suitors, would sooner or later carry off the prize. The nephew of the reigning monarch of a bankrupt little kingdom in the Balkans, the prince had been well known in New York and Newport for several seasons past as a dissipated spendthrift anxious to make a good matrimonial catch. Grace had disliked him the first moment she set eyes on him, and he had never succeeded in removing this first unfavorable impression. On the other hand, such a match certainly had advantages which to many a girl would prove too dazzling and tempting to resist. But Grace declined to be hurried into a decision. She demanded time, and while waiting to know his fate the Prince was suddenly recalled to Europe. This was as far as the affair had gone, and secretly Grace was glad to see the last of him, at least for a time, although the well-informed press sagely gave out that it was "understood in society circles that a formal engagement of Miss Grace Harmon and the Prince of Eurasia would shortly be announced."

Fully conscious of her power, well aware that her mere presence aroused jealousy in every woman and admiration in every man, Grace would have been more than human had she escaped being spoiled. The spitefully inclined accused her of haughtiness and of carrying her head high. It is true that she was careful in choosing her intimates and quick to snub those who were too ready to claim acquaintance, yet friends once made she kept, and she was popular in her set. In the more private home circle she was fairly idolized, especially by her father, who had indulged her every whim ever since she was born. Her mother, for years a chronic invalid, had left chiefly to servants the care of bringing her up, but to her father she was all that was worth while in life. The old man existed only for his beautiful daughter. Everything money could purchase—fine clothes, costly trinkets, smart automobiles were hers for the asking. After graduating from Bryn Mawr, she spent two years in France, Italy and Germany, acquiring a superficial knowledge of the continental languages. On her return home she joined the social whirl and became proficient in bridge. In short, Grace Harmon was accomplished to the tips of her tapering, carefully manicured fingers.

Brought up in the lap of luxury, never having expressed a desire that was not immediately gratified, Grace discovered after a time that wealth, while useful, has also its drawbacks. Having everything, she wanted nothing. She found herself wishing there might be something she could not have, so that for once, at least, she might experience the emotion of longing for the unattainable.

The plain truth was that Grace was no ordinary girl. She had more brains than people gave her credit for. Although reared in the tainted hot-house atmosphere of society, with its degenerate amusements, its low moral tone and trivial ambitions, she took little real interest in its shallow, vulgar pleasures. The women she soon discovered to be empty-headed or frankly immoral; the men were, for the most part, libertines, gamblers, fortune-hunters. The homage paid to her beauty flattered her vanity, but once the novelty of her first two seasons had worn away, surfeited with dinners, receptions, dances, and bridge-parties, she grew deadly tired of the social treadmill. It ceased to amuse her. She felt there was something wanting to complete her happiness. She lost her buoyancy of disposition, her high spirits disappeared, even her beauty paled. She became depressed and melancholy. People whispered that she was going into a decline. There had been a case of consumption in the family, they said. Her father, laughingly declaring that she was in love, asked for the name of the lucky man.

"Are you going to make the Prince happy at last, child?" he said.

"No, dad," she replied seriously. "It's nothing to do with that. Among all the men who've paid me attention there's not one I'd marry—now."

What seemed to Grace a more correct diagnosis of her trouble was made by Mrs. Wesley Stuart, her practical married friend:

"It's only your nerves, my dear—a natural reaction after the pace you've been going. What you need is a radical change of scene, something to stimulate your imagination. Take a trip around the world. If you'll go, I'll go with you."

Wesley Stuart was one of the big men in the Steel Trust and several times a millionaire. Gossip had long hinted that there was no love lost between him and his young wife, and she never denied it. He went his way; she went hers. She had all the money her expensive tastes called for, and this, coupled with a certain amount of natural cleverness, had given her considerable prominence in the artistic set. Her musicales were a success because her ready tact and intimate acquaintance with famous artists enabled her to surround herself with interesting people. Having some musical talent herself, she nourished the hopeless ambition that one day she would be able to sing in opera. Injudicious friends had encouraged her in this fatuous belief, and she had worked so hard and spent so much time and money studying with expensive teachers, with the idea of going on the stage, that at last her health gave way. Threatened with nervous breakdown, her physician had advised a long sea voyage, and this was just the opportunity she had been looking for. Both would have the other's company. If Grace would go, she wouldn't hesitate a second. As for her husband, he would be glad to be rid of her. She said it as a jest; in her heart she knew it was true. Not that she cared. Wesley gave her all the money she asked for and never interfered with her. According to her philosophy of life, theirs was as perfect a matrimonial understanding as she could wish for.

The idea of the trip at once appealed strongly to Grace. Enthusiastically she declared that she would like nothing better. It would be so novel and exciting, quite unlike any experience she had yet had. Some friends who had already made the trip gave glowing accounts of their travels, and the more she thought of it the more decided she was that around the world she would go. This decided it, for when once Grace made up her mind, everything was as good as settled. Nothing her father or mother might say could deter her from the project. She pleaded that the trip was absolutely necessary, not only for her health, but as a finishing touch to her education. The ship was not only going to China, Japan, India, and Egypt. It would visit also many out-of-the-way islands which are practically inaccessible to the usual tourist and seldom if ever visited. As a lesson in geography alone it was worth the money. Harmon père did not mind the expense. The few thousands the trip would cost was a bagatelle to the man of millions. What he balked at was the idea of losing his cherished daughter for six long months. The uncertainties of Wall Street made it impossible for him to accompany her, and Mrs. Harmon suffered so horribly from seasickness that she threw up her hands at the very suggestion. Seizing the excuse that a young girl could not go unaccompanied, her father, for the first time in his recollection, asserted his authority, emphatically refused consent, and was obdurate to all coaxing. Then Grace played her trump card. Their friend Mrs. Stuart was going on the same steamer. With a married woman for a chaperon, what further objection could there be? Seeing that he was check-mated, and that his daughter, as usual, would have her way in the end anyhow, Mr. Harmon reluctantly capitulated.

He was down at the steamer to see her off, a tall, distinguished-looking, silvery-haired old gentleman, conspicuous in the group of friends who had come to bid his daughter bon voyage. It was a noisy, jolly, unruly crowd. Every one talked at the same time, pushing and elbowing, blocking the gangway up which rushed each minute fresh arrivals laden with rugs and handbags. Ten minutes more and the "All ashore" gong would sound, and then the big ship would slowly pull out and point her nose for the open sea. Grace stood in the center of the fashionably dressed throng, herself stylishly attired in a chic, long gray cloth directoire coat and picture hat, bestowing smiles and handshakes right and left like a queen holding court. Everybody was in high spirits, all except Mr. Harmon, who tried to look brave as he furtively wiped away a tear.

"Don't do that, dad, or I'll spoil my complexion," whispered Grace, making heroic efforts to swallow a hard lump that arose in her own throat. "One would think I were going away forever. I'll be back safe and sound before you imagine—you'll see!"

"I hope so, child, I hope so," murmured the old man, clasping her to his breast. "It's foolish of me, of course. All the same, I can't help wishing you weren't going. I have a sort of presentiment that something will happen."

Grace laughed merrily.

"Nonsense, dad! What can happen? Nothing ever happens on ocean voyages. They are awfully tame and exasperatingly free from incident. Shipwrecks and things like that occur only in novels. Sometimes I wish things would happen."

"Really, Grace!" protested a feminine voice at her side, "I do wish you wouldn't say such wicked things. You know how nervous I am."

The speaker was Mrs. Wesley Stuart, under whose protective wing Grace was traveling. She was a willowy and rather attractive blonde, not yet in the thirties, but with a complexion somewhat the worse for rich foods, old wines, and late hours. Showily dressed, with a large black felt mushroom hat and heavy pearl pendants in her ears, she talked with affected languor and used a gold lorgnon.

"Your father is quite right, dear," she went on. "There are all sorts of perils at sea. A hundred things might happen. Our machinery might break down, we might drift for weeks without being sighted, we might collide with an iceberg in the fog, we might even turn turtle. Don't you remember that awful affair of the City of Berlin? Of course you don't. It was before your time—before mine, too, for that matter. The steamer left Liverpool about thirty years ago, crowded with passengers. She never reached port, and has never been heard of from that day to this. Every vestige of her was wiped out. They never picked up a life-boat, or even so much as a steamer-chair. The theory was that she turned turtle and went right down."

"No—really—you don't say so!" exclaimed behind them a man's voice with the exaggerated Piccadilly intonation some Englishmen affect. "It's a jolly shame, don'tcher know—to frighten Miss Harmon like that. She'll believe every bally thing you tell her and get the blue spiders and all that sort of thing—eh, what?"

Grace turned, smiling, to greet the Honorable Percy Fitzhugh, who was hemmed in the crowd at their elbows. He had just come aboard with a green Tyrolian hat on the side of his head, a monocle in his eye, and a bull-terrier tucked under his arm. Close behind was his valet, carrying a wonderful collection of walking-sticks and a huge bouquet of flowers.

"Oh, I don't mind!" laughed Grace. "I'm a fine sailor and not a bit nervous. The sea has no terrors for me."

"I wish I could say as much," sighed Mrs. Stuart. Petulantly she added: "I never feel safe on the ocean. I don't mind storms, but I'm terribly afraid of fog and icebergs and fire. Whenever it's foggy I can't eat or sleep. I'm in a state of mental anguish until it clears again."

"It's a jolly good thing some of us have nerve—eh, what?" exclaimed Mr. Fitzhugh, with a wink at Grace. Addressing Mrs. Stuart, he went on: "You remind me of Rex, my terrier here. He loathes the sea—howls and whines dismally the whole time. But please don't get the blue spiders, that's a good girl. We're going to be an awfully jolly party. Don't spoil the fun. Try a champagne cocktail. Best antidote for nervousness in the world. If one don't work, take two. You'll feel bully." Turning to his man, he added: "Thompson, take those flowers to my stateroom, and go and see about my 'tub' and steamer-chair."

The next moment the Englishman and his green thatch were swallowed up in the crush of new arrivals.

"Did you ever see such a coarse, selfish creature!" exclaimed Mrs. Stuart indignantly. "The impudence of his comparing me to his miserable dog!"

"Who are the flowers for?" laughed Grace.

"Mrs. Phelps, of course. He's head over heels in debt. He needs her money. I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't catch on. She's very ambitious—the title attracts her. There she comes now."

A stylish, handsome woman, richly dressed all in black, with large Gainsborough hat to match, came leisurely up the gangplank, followed by a smart footman weighed down with packages. She nodded cordially to Grace and Mrs. Stuart as she caught sight of them, and disappeared in the direction of the staterooms.

"She's literally bursting with money," whispered Mrs. Stuart, who knew everybody's business. "Her husband left her ten millions. He was a simple soul—a plain, matter-of-fact business man. All he thought of was making money. She never cared for him. It's just as well he died. She can marry again now and live the life she likes best. All the men are after her. Some think Count von Hatzfeld has the best chance. Of course you know he's on the ship. You see, it's all cut and dried."

"I don't blame her," said Grace cynically, as she returned the bow of another arrival. "It must be dreadful to be a mere 'Mrs. Green' or 'Mrs. Brown.' I couldn't live with any ordinary man—a mere business man whose one thought was figures and profits. My ideal is an English peer or an Italian count—preferably the latter. They are less expensive. English dukes, they say, drink hard and beat their wives. It would be nice to be addressed as 'Duchess,' or 'Comtesse.'"

Mrs. Stuart looked approvingly at her protégée.

"I'm glad to see you're so practical, my dear."

"Why not? This is a practical age," laughed Grace.

"Well, there's Prince Sergius. He's only waiting the word. Why don't you marry him and be a princess—only two lives removed from a throne? Every woman in America would envy you."

Grace frowned.

"And I—would despise myself?" she answered. "Every one knows his reputation. It's my money he wants, that's all. I haven't yet sunk so low as to purchase a titled husband at the price of my self-respect. Besides, I could not endure a tie that would be entirely loveless, wholly mercenary. I hope I have some ideals; some sentiment left."

"Were you ever in love?" persisted her companion.

"I suppose I was, like most girls. When I first left school I saw boys I liked. All girls are silly at some period of their life. But I survived those early attachments. I am still heart-whole. I never see nowadays a man with whom I could fall in love. To me, they all seem conceited and selfish. Of course I shall have to marry one day or other, but I'm afraid it will be what the French call a mariage de convenance.

"Or, in plain Yankee, marriage with an eye to the main chance," rejoined Mrs. Stuart. "But you don't have to marry for money, child. You are rich."

Grace was thoughtful a moment, and then she replied:

"Money is not everything—mere money is vulgar. One gets horribly tired of it." Pensively she went on: "You think I am cold and devoid of sentiment. You are wrong. I yearn for life in the sun-lit countries of the old world, in historic lands of intrigue, love, and passion, with brilliant state functions amid scenes of regal splendor, where class and birth count for more than mere wealth. In America we have only the money standard. The wife of any little grocer who gets rich overnight may be a social leader to-morrow. It's disgusting!"

Mrs. Stuart was about to say something when a sudden commotion on the dock attracted everybody's attention, and there was a general rush to the rail. A large crowd had gathered near the entrance of the gangway, surrounding a man who lay struggling on the ground. Policemen and ship's officers were stooping over him trying to quiet him.

"What's the matter?" cried Grace anxiously. "I hope no one's hurt!"

"It looks as if some one had fallen in a fit," said Mrs. Stuart, looking through her lorgnon.

Mr. Harmon, who had been conversing with an acquaintance, came up hurriedly. Having noticed the excitement, he feared that some harm threatened his daughter.

"It's an accident of some kind," he said.

"Oh, I knew something would happen!" exclaimed Mrs. Stuart, getting out her smelling-salts.

"Do you know what the matter is?" inquired Grace of a sailor.

The man grinned and touched his cap.

"'Tain't nothin', miss. Only one of 'em blokes what keeps the fire's a-goin' got it inter ees 'ead that it was too bloomin' 'ot for 'im. So 'ee jumps the blessed ship without so much as askin' leave, an' gets run in by the cops fer 'is pains."

The explanation, such as it was, was wholly incomprehensible to Grace, who knew as much as she did before. Meantime the crowd grew bigger, the noise louder and the excitement more intense. A number of ship's officers had the man on his feet and were half dragging him, half carrying him to the gangplank. It was not exactly an agreeable spectacle with which to regale fastidious passengers on sailing-day, and the ship's officers would have gladly avoided it. But the refractory stoker was necessary to the speed of the vessel, and there was no way of getting him aboard except by the main gangway. It was late. The steamer would pull out any moment, and the other gangways had been already pulled in.

Mrs. Stuart offered to interpret the sailor's speech:

"He says that one of the sailors has been overcome by the heat and fallen on the dock in a faint."

"Not exactly, miss," grinned the man, with another tug of his cap. "'Ee's not the kind wot faints. 'Ee's puttin' up a fight. 'Ee's a fighter, is Handsome Jack."

Grace turned in bewilderment to her father, who had just returned on board.

"Handsome Jack!" she echoed. "What does he mean?"

"It's only a deserter," explained Mr. Harmon. "A fireman who attempted to get away before the ship sailed. The officers found him in a drinking-shop and brought him here."

"I don't blame the poor beggar for trying to desert," said the Honorable Percy Fitzhugh, who had just come up from below-stairs. "It's jolly awful in that stoke-hold, don'tcher know? Ever been down in the stoke-hold, Miss Harmon? No? I'll take you down some day—eh, what? I don't see how they get men to do such work. I'd rather commit suicide, by Jove!"

"Yes, it is terrible work," said Mr. Harmon. "They take to it only when desperate and forced by circumstances. It is well known that murderers and criminals of every description take to stoking when they wish to lie low. They know the police will never look for them in the stoke-hold, on the theory that they are getting punishment enough."

"How dreadful!" yawned Grace, as she watched with languid interest the commotion on the shore. Presently she asked: "Can they make him go back to work in the stoke-hold whether he likes or not?"

"Certainly," replied her father. "This is an English ship. He probably signed articles in Liverpool. Under British maritime law, any member of the crew deserting ship in a foreign port can be arrested. That's what, in sailor parlance, is called 'a pier-head jump.' You see, a big vessel like this must have its full complement of stokers, otherwise she can't get up enough steam, and the record suffers. That's why they take the trouble to go after deserters. They say that this fellow deserves no sympathy. He's a good-for-nothing, brutal, violent fellow. Here he comes now."

"I'd like to see him!" exclaimed Grace, pushing forward to get a closer view of the group of men as they came struggling up the gangplank.

"Oh, Grace, how can you look at such horrid sights?" ejaculated Mrs. Stuart, fanning herself nervously and averting her face.

The prisoner by this time was nearly exhausted, and presented a sorry sight. His grease-stained clothes were torn to rags, his hair was disheveled, blood flowed freely from a cut on his cheek, making all the more striking the contrast with his white, set face and its grim, hopeless expression.

IT WAS ALL THEY COULD DO TO DRAG HIM ON BOARD.

Armitage knew he was beaten. His strength and determination had availed him nothing, yet he was still full of fight. It was all they could do to drag him on board inch by inch. As they reached the deck, and he realized that once more the ship had enslaved him, a hoarse cry of despair escaped his lips. With a last superhuman effort, he shook himself free. One of his captors was hurled to the left, the other sent flying to the right. His fists shot out, and a third officer fell like a log. For a moment he was free, and, surprised at his success, he stood triumphant over their prostrate forms, just as a gladiator, doomed to die, might tower for a few brief seconds above his worsted foes. His fists clenched, his shapely head thrown back, every muscle taut, his eyes flashing, chest heaving, he resembled a classic hero battling with pigmies.

"Isn't he handsome!" exclaimed Grace.

"Aye, miss," grinned the voluble sailor. "That's wot we call 'im—Handsome Jack. Sometimes it's Gentleman Jack, cause of 'is fine manners; but 'ee's only a stoker, just the same."

The officers regained their feet and again sprang at their prisoner. The passengers fell back alarmed.

"Come here, Grace!" cried Mr. Harmon uneasily. "You'll get hurt."

But there was no danger. More officers and sailors ran quickly up, and confronted by such re-enforcements, the fireman stood no chance. Before he had time to take advantage of his temporary victory, he was again overpowered and dragged without further ado in the direction of the forecastle. Grace shrank back as he was taken past, but she could not help seeing his wild, staring eyes and white face with its expression of despair. As he disappeared, the last gong sounded, every visitor hurried ashore, the siren started its deep-toned blasts as warning that the leviathan was getting under weigh.

"I wish it hadn't happened," said Grace, as she kissed her hand in adieu to her father, who stood on the dock watching the vessel go out.

"It's made me positively ill," complained Mrs. Stuart, busy with her smelling-salts.

Long after New York's sky-scrapers had faded from view and the land was only a dim line on the horizon, Grace was still haunted by that white, set face, with its expression of utter despair.

CHAPTER III.

The Indian Ocean, a vast expanse of tossing blue water, its heaving bosom still agitated by the expiring gale, glorious in the outburst of sunshine that followed the storm, stretched away to every point of the compass. As far as the eye could carry, away to where the breaking clouds touched the fast-disappearing land line of mysterious Asia, the boisterous white-capped seas scattered showers of prisms and spray. Rolling and tumbling, their lofty crests flecked with fleecy foam, the endless waves advanced majestically, with rhythmical motion and the stateliness and precision of trained battalions, all scurrying in one direction, urged on by the whip of the southwesterly gale. The tempest had abated, the lowering clouds were rapidly dispersing, once more Nature was smiling and serene, diffusing the beauty and gladness of life through water and sky. Graceful, white-winged sea-birds uttered shrill cries of delight as they circled in the air, gorgeously colored flying fish leaped joyously from the dancing waters, which flashed like jewels in the blinding sunlight. The world was at its brightest and fairest, full of movement and color. The breeze was caressing and balmy, and as the Atlanta, now three weeks from home, plunged her way resistlessly Eastward, the great liner was sonorous with the music of wind and sea.

Thus far the voyage had hardly been all that could be desired as regards weather. January is seldom a good month for the Atlantic, and this year the crossing was nastier than usual. The Atlanta had no sooner cleared the Banks than it began to blow great guns. Gale followed gale with tropical downpours of rain, the wind blowing from every quarter at once, piling up mountainous combers that every now and again broke over the bridge, forty feet above the water. The tremendous seas crashed aboard with a thunderous roar, frightening the more timid among the passengers, smashing life-boats and ventilators, sweeping the decks from bow to stem with avalanches of green water. Skylights were shattered, bridge stanchions bent and twisted, but otherwise there was no damage. The big ship steamed true on her course, haughtily indifferent to the capricious ocean's moods, staunch as a rock, and quite as steady as any railroad-train moving at full speed.

The rough weather had the natural effect of confining most of the women folk to their staterooms, and as the men also kept to themselves, preferring bridge and poker in the smoking-room to the wet decks, there was not much opportunity for social amenities.

Owing to the high seas, no attempt was made to land at Madeira, and there was no little grumbling because the vagaries of the elements made it impossible to visit Funchal, the Pico Ruivo, Ponta Delgada, and other picturesque places of perennial verdure and flowers. The storm gradually abated, but it was not until the steamer entered the smoother waters of the Mediterranean that there was the slightest pretense at dress or any attempt made to put in regular appearances at dinner. However, the improvement in the weather and the close proximity of land, with the cheering prospect of going ashore, brought about a quick change in everybody's humor. The passengers' spirits rose with the barometer. Fine toilettes made their appearance on deck, the usual little steamer-chair cliques were speedily formed, and every one now started in to enjoy themselves as if the voyage had only just begun.

They landed gleefully in tenders, some to inspect the wonders of England's impregnable fortress, others to visit Spanishtown; they crowded to the rail as the ship steamed slowly past the enchanted island of Capri, so dear to the archeologist, and in the Bay of Naples they gazed in awe upon frowning Vesuvius, still smoking and rumbling after a disastrous eruption that had cost hundreds of lives. Sheep-like, after the manner of tourists, they hurried breathlessly through the attractions Naples had to offer, and then, skirting classic Scylla and Charybdis, they steamed on to the land of the Pharaohs, where a complete change of scene awaited them.

So far, Grace had kept much to herself. She was not particularly interested in anybody on board, and she found it a welcome novelty, after her recent strenuous social activities, to be able to enjoy a few hours of absolute rest. What with unpacking, writing letters home, and looking after Mrs. Stuart, who, almost from the start, had been completely prostrated with seasickness, she had found the time slip by rapidly and agreeably enough without having to seek diversion outside her immediate little circle. Her chaperon's indisposition furnished her with an admirable excuse for remaining in seclusion, and if another were needed, she had it in the inclemency of the weather. While she herself was not distressed by the rolling and pitching, the unusual motion did not add to her comfort. She preferred to stay in the privacy of her luxurious quarters, which were the object of the envy and curiosity of every other woman on board.

Mr. Harmon had spared no expense to secure for his daughter the best on the ship that money could buy. Grace occupied the "royal" suite, a series of sumptuously furnished and richly decorated rooms, entirely shut off from the rest of the ship, thus ensuring complete privacy, comprising bedroom, parlor, dining-room, with piano, telephone, library, etc. With her own maids to wait on her and all meals served privately, there was no necessity to leave her rooms unless she wished to, and if she chose to breathe the invigorating sea air there was no one to see her walk on the deserted lower promenade-deck on which her suite directly opened.

She had not gone ashore with the other passengers when the steamer stopped at Gibraltar and Naples. Mrs. Stuart was still indisposed, and she refused to leave her, but when the Atlanta reached Cairo, her chaperon was feeling better, and they both landed to see the sights. Mrs. Stuart had visited Egypt before, but to Grace it was like a glimpse of grand-opera land, a scene from "Aida." The waving palm-trees, the queer Oriental dwellings, the wonderful blue sky blazing on the peaceful desert, with its endless miles of burning sands, its beautiful oases, its camels and picturesquely costumed natives—all this made up a picture of delightful novelty for the young girl fresh from prosaic New York. She gazed wondering at the blue-turbaned Copts, they laughed merrily at the Fellahin in their blue skirts and stared at the yellow-turbaned Jews, fierce-looking Bedouins and black Nubians. At the cost of a few piastres but much muscular exertion, they were dragged up the face of the mighty pyramids, and with varying emotions they contemplated the time-eaten features of the inscrutable Sphinx.

The two women derived much enjoyment from their little jaunts. Sometimes they were escorted by Mr. Fitzhugh, who, despairing of making any headway with Mrs. Phelps now that his detested German rival, Count von Hatzfeld, had contrived to monopolize the widow, had begun to dance attendance upon Grace. He knew she had money in her own right, and his mouth watered at the magnitude of her expectations. There seemed no reason why the Harmon millions should not be as usefully employed in regilding the dilapidated Fitzhugh coat-of-arms as those of the late Mr. Phelps. But he did not make much progress, and he had a vague premonition that he was not the kind of chap to appeal to this cold, proud beauty. Discreet conversations on the subject with Mrs. Stuart went far to discourage him altogether.

"Grace does not expect to love the man she will marry, so her utter indifference does not reflect her feelings to you in the least," said that perspicacious student of modern femininity. This statement was not exactly true, but it served the purpose of the moment. "Even if she considered you a desirable match," she went on, "she would not be any more unbending. That indifferent, independent manner is her chief charm. It is the stateliness of the lily. Grace might marry you, but she would not love you. She is too much up to date to believe there is any such thing as love. Self-interest governs the world to-day—not love, which, after all, is only a primitive, vulgar emotion. Girls who want to marry well understand this thoroughly. Love and lovers are very delightful in fiction, but no sensible girl to-day takes them into account when planning her future welfare. When Grace does change her name, it will be to take that of one of the proudest families in Europe. Surely you know that she's already as good as engaged to Prince Sergius of Eurasia! As far as titles are concerned, that's going some!"

"But I may be a peer one day," protested Mr. Fitzhugh.

"You may be, but you're not," retorted Mrs. Stuart. "Your father, the earl, is still alive, and your elder brother is aggressively healthy. American girls do not deal in futures."

The Englishman took the hint, and, profiting by a temporary indisposition of Count von Hatzfeld, returned to the siege of the fascinating Mrs. Phelps, whose millions were nearly as many and aspirations not quite as high as those of Miss Grace Harmon.

The steamer stayed in port over a week, much to the delight of the passengers, who enjoyed the holiday ashore hugely after having been cooped up so long aboard. The weather continued ideal, and every one took advantage of it to see everything that was worth seeing.

The more enterprising passengers undertook little side excursions up the historic Nile; others roamed through the native bazaars, buying at exorbitant prices a vast quantity of things for which they had no possible use; others drove to the tomb of Mehemet Ali, or to the viceroys' palace, keeping up the sightseeing day and night, until all were so weary that they were glad when the Atlanta once more weighed anchor and proceeded down the Red Sea and so into the Indian Ocean, en route, for Bombay.

CHAPTER IV.

As she sat on the deck, reclining indolently in her steamer-chair, propped up with soft cushions, gazing dreamily on the splendid panorama that unfolded slowly before her—the endless procession of majestic, foam-tipped waves, fleecy clouds drifting lazily in a sky of turquoise blue, the sails of a distant vessel whitened by the sun—Grace felt exuberant with the joy of life.

The latest novel was on her lap, yet she made no attempt to read. Mrs. Stuart, stretched out on a chair alongside, had vainly endeavored to engage her in conversation. But she did not care to talk, and she found it impossible to center her attention on a book, preferring to just lay still, her eyes semi-closed, rocked gently by the steamer's gradual motion, her senses gently thrilled by the sensuous sounds of ship and sea.

The promenade-deck presented the picture of comfort and peace usually to be seen, any fine morning on a liner in mid-ocean—the passengers of both sexes laid out in rows, mummylike, on steamer-chairs, each covered with a rug different from his neighbor's and of bizarre design and color, some reading, some sleeping, some conversing in subdued tones, some sipping cups of bouillon brought on trays by nimble stewards; the decks scrubbed an immaculate white, the brasses highly polished; a neatly uniformed quartermaster standing at a gangway, patiently splicing a rope; two officers on the bridge sweeping the horizon with their glasses or pacing up and down with monotonous precision. With no noises to irritate the ear, a sea voyage has no equal as a rest cure. One heard nothing but the purring of the wind, the gentle flapping of canvas, the splash of the waves, the regular throb of the ship's propeller. Conditions were ideal for day-dreams, and Grace was thinking.

As she idly watched the foaming water rush past the rail she thought how pleasantly fate had planned her life. She might have been born poor and compelled to work in a store for miserable wages, standing on her feet behind a counter ten long and weary hours a day, forbidden to sit down on pain of dismissal, bullied by arrogant employers, insulted by inconsiderate customers. This she knew was the lot of thousands of girls whose pale, tired faces had frequently aroused her sympathy when shopping. She belonged to the small, lucky minority—the ruling class—which by the power of its great wealth is able to enslave nine-tenths of the human race. The world, she ruminated, was full of unfortunates whose only fault was that they were born poor. Her mind reverted to the handsome stoker whom they had dragged on board with such little ceremony the day the ship sailed from New York. She wondered what his life had been to force him to take to such an occupation, and what had become of him. Perhaps at that very moment, while she sat there surrounded by every luxury, he was suffering the agonies of the damned. She reproached herself for not making inquiries after him. When she next saw the captain she would certainly do so.

How different was her own life! Sailing along on this splendid ship, with perfect weather and ideal surroundings, the world seemed to exist only to afford her pleasure. If the sun shone brightly, it was only to give her joy; if the soft winds blew, it was only to caress her cheek. It seemed unjust. Things were not equal. At times she was sorry that her father was so rich. Had he been poor, she would have had an incentive to work hard and do something. Although she had everything she desired, she was not really happy. She felt there was something wanting, and she thought it was because her life lacked a definite aim. Other girls did things—they painted pictures, wrote books, went on the stage. If her father became bankrupt to-morrow, where would she be? A perfectly useless member of society, ornamental, possibly, but quite useless. Only two alternatives would be open to her—either to seek some humble employment or throw herself in the arms of a rich man. She would not be the first victim of the plutocracy which closes the doors of the liberal professions to its daughters, only to throw them, in the hour of adversity, into the palsied arms of the roué and the voluptuary.

Like most American girls, Grace had little to learn in regard to life's fundamentals. She had read all the decadent novelists, from D'Aununzio to Eleanor Glyn, and the daily newspapers, coupled with whispered conversations over five-o'clock teas, had speedily shattered what other illusions had been left over from her school-days. The low moral standard of the set in which she moved had made her cynical in her attitude toward the men who courted her. She had a horror of fortune-hunters, and most of the men who had paid her attention, Prince Sergius and the rest, she suspected of being after her money. Yet she must marry some day. She must find a husband, even if she were not to love him. A married woman is able to take a place in society that is denied the single woman. Marry she must, but whom? The men she knew either bored her or disgusted her. He need not be a rich man, for she had enough for both, yet if a poor man presented himself, she would certainly put him in the fortune-hunting class. As she had told her friend, Mrs. Stuart, a man with a proud title would suit her best. There would be no question of love, of course, only self-interest on both sides. He would furnish the coronet, she the dollars. It would be the mariage de convenance, with its hypocrisies, its lies, its miseries.

She wondered if her attitude toward life were wrong, if really there were not a man somewhere whom a woman could respect and admire for his strength, his bravery, his nobility of character. The old-fashioned authors—the Dumas, the Scotts, the Bulwer Lyttons, the Elliots—presented such men as their heroes. Were there no such men left in the world to-day? Or were the writers of modern fiction right when they depicted the men of to-day as fortune-hunters, egotistical coxcombs, conscienceless libertines, deliberate destroyers of women's virtue? Cynical as the reading of unwholesome books and witnessing salacious plays had made her, Grace had still a little of the romantic left in her. She was still healthy-minded enough to find romance more satisfying than the vulgar realism of the modern risqué novel. And as she lay there in her chair, basking in the warm sunshine, her eyes half closed, she abandoned herself momentarily to the sensuousness of the moment.

In her imagination gradually took form the ideal hero her heart craved for. She was resting on a country road, and a man was approaching. He was tall, with dark, wavy hair and smooth face, and the clean-cut features of a Greek god. He knew she was rich, but he cared not, for he despised mere wealth, and he was about to pass by unheeding, when he chanced to notice her face, which pleased his sense of beauty. He stopped wondering, and, chatting with her, marveled at the liquid splendor of her eyes. This was the woman he had sought, the woman for whom he would toil and fight. He took her hand, and at his touch her heart leaped ecstatically. A strange thrill stirred her as he gazed hungrily into her eyes and gently drew her to him. Timidly she yielded to his ardent embrace, and as he clasped her soft form roughly to his strong breast and his warm lips met hers in a deep, lingering kiss that seemed to aspire her very soul, a sensation she had never known before invaded her entire being. She felt as though she would swoon.

"Aren't you getting hungry, Grace? Whatever are you so engrossed about?" said Mrs. Stuart petulantly.

The interruption was so sudden and abrupt that Grace was startled, and it was with some confusion that she replied:

"Just thinking—that's all! This weather actually makes one foolish."

"Good morning, ladies!"

A shadow suddenly shut out the glare of the sun. Grace and Mrs. Stuart looked up. It was Captain Summers, who was walking the deck with Professor Hanson. The Atlanta's commander was a typical sea-dog, big, broad-shouldered, with a deep bass voice and a face tanned by exposure to all sorts of weather. Contrasted with Professor Hanson, a nervous little man, with a bald, domelike cranium, he looked like a giant. Like most Englishmen, he was frigid in manner and not too amiable in his intercourse with the passengers. But Grace, Mrs. Stuart, and the professor happened to sit at his table, which made a difference. For them he condescended to unbend. He was not blind to the fact that Grace was an uncommonly good-looking girl, and Mrs. Stuart amused him. Touching his cap, he sank into the empty seat on the other side of Grace, while Professor Hanson drew up another chair.

"How long can we expect this glorious weather to last, captain?" asked Mrs. Stuart, greeting the commander's salute with a gracious smile.

"It's hard to say," he replied pleasantly, after a quick glance at the sky. "The barometer's steady enough now, but in these latitudes one may expect anything at any time. The Indian Ocean is as capricious in its moods as a woman. I've seen it as quiet as this at noon, yet by nightfall we'd run into such a storm that you'd think the ship would be blown out of the water."

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Stuart, with a little nervous laugh. "I hope we shan't have any such experience. I'd die of fright."

"Don't worry, m'm," replied the captain reassuringly. "There's no sign of a change." Gallantly he added: "I wouldn't hear of you ladies being put to the slightest inconvenience. I'll see that this weather continues until we arrive at Bombay."

"When do we get in, captain?" demanded Grace languidly.

"You're not getting tired of us, I hope," replied the commander, with a laugh.

"Oh, no. I only want to know when I must begin to pack my trunks. You know, we're going on a motor tour inland."

"Next Saturday we shall have the captain's dinner, with the dance afterward," interrupted Mrs. Stuart. "So I suppose they expect to land us Monday."

"How about that, captain?" demanded the professor.

Captain Summers looked at all three in an amused sort of way, and for a moment made no answer. Then gruffly he said:

"A sailor of experience never ventures to make predictions. We are due at Bombay next Monday. If all goes well, I expect to land my passengers on that day. As Mrs. Stuart says, we shall entertain you at dinner and give you a dance on deck next Saturday, in honor of our arrival. But if anything delays us, don't be disappointed. We might run on a rock and go to the bottom. Or we might break our propellers. If that happened, we should be completely helpless. We might drift out of our course for weeks before help could reach us."

"Oh, wouldn't that be awful!" cried Mrs. Stuart.

"How could we summon assistance?" asked Grace eagerly.

"By wireless, of course," broke in the professor, who assumed the air of superior knowledge on every subject broached. "The invention of wireless telegraphy has practically reduced the perils of seagoing to a negligible minimum."

"Thank Heaven, we've got the wireless!" gasped Mrs. Stuart. "I could hug the man who invented it—Macaroni—what's his name?"

"You mean Marconi, my dear madam," interposed the professor solemnly.

"The wireless is all right as far as it goes," said the captain grimly. "Certainly its invention is a great step forward, but two things are essential for its success in a critical situation. Firstly, it must be in working order. In bad weather the aerial wires are apt to be put out of commission. Secondly, there must be a Marconi station or receiver within a few hundred miles of where you happen to be. If these conditions are not present, you might as well whistle!"

Mrs. Stuart looked so depressed at this discouraging opinion that Grace could not repress a smile. Professor Hanson, never sorry of an opportunity to air his fund of information, went on pompously:

"Captain, you spoke just now of running on a rock. Is it not a fact that in this ocean there are rocks and small islands not shown on the nautical charts, and that for this reason navigation in these waters is more dangerous than elsewhere?"

For all reply, the commander gave vent to a loud guffaw and, with a side glance at Mrs. Stuart, winked slyly at Grace.

"If we keep up this kind of talk, Mrs. Stuart will think we're doomed to come to grief of some kind. Let's be more cheerful."

"Am I right or wrong, captain?" persisted the professor. "My information came from a naval man."

The commander's face became set and stern, as it usually did when he was serious. Removing his cigar, he said slowly:

"Your informant was right. For some reason or other, there is no such thing as an absolutely accurate chart of the Indian Ocean. They have talked for years of making a new chart, but, so far, nothing has been done. Yet we sailors who regularly navigate these waters know from experience that there are hereabouts currents strong enough to divert a vessel from her true course, and a number of small islands no mention of which is made on the existing charts. The Admiralty and Lloyds are well aware of the existence Of these dangers to navigation, but you all know what red tape is."

"How delightfully romantic!" cried Grace, with enthusiasm. "Unexplored islands inhabited by savages who never saw white people, and who trade in beads and go naked!"

"Cannibals, no doubt," suggested Mrs. Stuart, with an affected shudder.

"Where are these islands?" inquired Grace.

"A long way out of our course, I hope," laughed the captain. "Yet I've passed quite close to some of them. They seem quite deserted. So far as we could make out, there is not even animal life on them. But, being in the direct steamer lane to India, they constitute a menace to shipping that should be removed."

"Most decidedly—most decidedly!" said the professor emphatically.

Captain Summers arose to go.

"It's very delightful chatting here," he said, with a smile; "but I must go up on the bridge and attend to my duties. Otherwise, we may bump right on to one of those islands."

"By the way, captain," said Grace. "What has become of that poor fireman who made such a disturbance the day we sailed from New York?"

The captain frowned.

"Oh, he's down where he belongs—shoveling coal." Then he added: "Don't waste any sympathy on him. He's about as hard a character as you could find. Stokers are all troublesome as a class, but this Armitage fellow is quite unmanageable. I shall be glad to get rid of him. We had to put him on bread and water the first ten days out. It wasn't until he was nearly dead from starvation that he consented to go to work."

"Stoking down in that pit in that terrific heat must be fearful!" exclaimed the professor.

"Yes," growled the captain. "It is pretty bad. Most of them don't mind it, though. They aren't good for anything else. They're tough, coarse-fibered creatures, scarcely superior in instincts to the savage. They'd think nothing of running a knife into you, and that Armitage chap is worse than the worst of them. We've had trouble with him all along."

"Still, after all," mused the professor, "we mustn't forget that it is they who make the ship go. We couldn't do without them. Every man has his place in the world's economy."

"It must be very interesting to see them at work," remarked Grace. "I'd like to see what the stoke-hold looks like. Mr. Fitzhugh said he would take me down." Looking down the deck, she added: "Here he comes now. I'll ask him."

"There's no time like the present," said the captain. "See Mr. Wetherbee, the chief engineer. He'll take you down."

"Yes," said the professor pedantically. "The spectacle will be a good object lesson for you—a pampered daughter of the plutocracy. With a little imagination, you can see in the stoke-hold social conditions as they actually are in the world to-day. In the stokers you have the laborers, the mill-hands, the sweat-shop workers, the common people who toil painfully for pitiful wages, for their daily bread. We others up here, lolling in our luxurious steamer-chairs, living on the fat of the land—or, rather, sea, to be more correct—are the masters, the capitalists. It is the slave system of ancient Rome under another name, that's all. It's all wrong. Man's injustice to man is the great crime of the centuries. Why should I be here enjoying every comfort and those unfortunate men down there condemned to tortures as cruel as those devised by the merciless Inquisition."

Captain Summers shrugged his massive shoulders, and, as he turned to go, said laughingly:

"Mind you don't talk that way in the stoke-hold, or they might take you at your word and keep you down there."

"No danger of that, captain," laughed Mrs. Stuart. "The professor's only theorizing, you know. It costs nothing to expound theory. He has no idea of exchanging places with the stokers."

The commander guffawed loudly, and, with a parting salute to the ladies, turned on his heel and disappeared up the companionway. At that moment the Hon. Percy Fitzhugh came up, the inevitable monocle in his eye.

"Oh, I say, Miss Harmon," he began, with his affected English drawl. "Be my partner at shuffleboard, eh, what?"

Mrs. Stuart, irritated at an invitation which ignored her, answered for her ward:

"Miss Harmon has more serious things to attend to. Don't come disturbing us with your idiotic games. We are intellectual here—talking socialism, cannibals, wireless, stoke-holds, and such things. If you can't be intellectual, keep away."

"Mr. Fitzhugh," said Grace, laughing, "you promised to take me down to the stoke-hold. Suppose we all go now?"

Mr. Fitzhugh beamed. The beautiful one had actually deigned to ask him a favor. Overcome with emotion, he stuttered his reply:

"Delighted, of course. It'll be jolly good sport to see the beggars hard at work down there. I'll let the shuffleboard go hang. Come, we'll go and see the chief engineer, eh, what?"

He assisted Grace and Mrs. Stuart to their feet, and, followed by the professor, they all made their way to Mr. Wetherbee's cabin.