When Dan found his seat in the dining-saloon, that evening, he glanced up and down the long table, in the hope that Miss Vard and her father might be among his neighbours. But they were not, and it was not until he was half through the meal that he descried them at one of the tables on the other side of the room. At his own table there were the usual assorted types of the middle-class tourist, his wife and family, most of them frankly glad that they were homeward bound, with the greatest part of their pilgrimage accomplished.
The sea was smooth and the great boat forged ahead with scarcely any motion, so that every seat was occupied and every one in good spirits. There was a hum of talk and rattle of dishes; the white-coated stewards scuttled back and forth, and the scene was as pleasant as the wholesale human consumption of food can ever be.
Dan went on with his dinner with one eye on the far table where Miss Vard and her father were seated; but his attention was distracted for a time by a discussion which an Anglomaniac across the table started as to the relative merits of England and America, and to which he could not resist contributing a few remarks. When he glanced across the saloon again, he saw that Miss Vard and her father were no longer there. However, he finished his dinner with the comfortable consciousness that the second-class quarters were limited, and that she could not escape from them except by jumping overboard; and when the meal was ended, he made his way leisurely through the lounge and along the decks in search of her. There were girls, girls everywhere, but not the one he sought; and finally, with a little smile, he mounted the ladder which led to the after boat-deck.
Already other couples, scouting about the ship, had discovered the advantages of its dim seclusion, and most of the benches in the lee of the boats and about the little wireless-house were occupied; but, on that one bench, in the shadow of the after life-boat, Dan descried a solitary figure. He advanced without hesitation.
"I was hoping I should find you," he said.
She moved a little aside, as an invitation for him to share the bench.
"I like it up here," she said, "with no light but the stars, and that strange luminous glow along those wires up yonder."
Looking up, Dan saw that the gridiron of wires stretched between the masts was, indeed, faintly luminous against the sky.
"That's the wireless," he said. "Listen—you can hear it," and from the open window of the wireless-house came the vicious snap and crackle of electricity. "The operator is sending a message."
She looked up again at the glowing wires.
"I think it the most wonderful thing in the world!" she said. "I can't understand it—I can't believe it—and yet, there it is!"
"Yes—and I suppose it has become an every-day affair to the operator in there; it isn't wonderful to him any more. We forget how wonderful a lot of things are, when we get used to them."
"How wonderful everything is," she corrected; "the sunrise, the ocean...."
They sat for some time in silence, gazing out across the dark and restless water, touched here and there with white, as a wave combed and broke. Then Dan's gaze wandered to her face. Seen thus, in the dim light, framed by her dark hair, it, too, seemed wonderful to him; there was about it a mystic allusiveness, a subtle charm, far more compelling than mere beauty ever is; her eyes had depths to them....
She felt his gaze upon her and turned her face to him and smiled.
"You may smoke, if you wish," she said. "I can feel that at the back of your mind."
"I believe I was thinking about it," Dan admitted, and got out his pipe; but he had himself been scarcely conscious of the thought, and it amazed him that she should have detected it. There was the flare of a match, and he sat back again, exhaling a long puff. "Now," he said, "you are going to begin my education. I am ready for the first lesson."
"How shall I begin?"
"I think an excellent way would be to tell me something about yourself," he suggested.
She considered him gravely.
"Are you really in earnest?" she asked.
"Indeed I am," he answered quickly, colouring a little under her searching eyes. "Forgive me if I seemed not to be. And please begin in any way you think best."
"I will tell you something about Poland," she said, "and then you will understand a little what I and all like me feel for America. You know, I suppose, that there is no longer any such land as Poland?"
"I know that Russia and one or two other powers divided it, about a hundred years ago."
"Yes; but you cannot know what that division meant! The Poles were a brave and patriotic people; they loved their country as few peoples do; and all at once, great armies were flung upon them; they were overwhelmed, and their country was taken away. They lost more than their country: they lost their language, their history, their national life. But in spite of it all, they remained Poles.
"I was born in Russian Poland, not far from Warsaw. From the very first, I was taught that I was a Pole, not a Russian. But only at home, under my own roof, could I be a Pole. The teaching of Polish was forbidden in any school—every word spoken must be Russian. If children were overheard talking in Polish, they were arrested by the police and their parents summoned and fined. On every public building there was a painted notice: 'It is forbidden to speak Polish.' All trials were conducted in Russian, although none of the peasants understood Russian, and so had no idea of what was being said. No official was permitted to answer a question in Polish—I have known a tramcar conductor to be heavily fined for doing so.
"We were taught history in which the name of our fatherland was never mentioned, but where Russia was treated as the wisest, best, and most powerful of nations, with the Czar second only to God himself. We could not leave our native village without permission from the police. No Pole could fill any public office. No Pole was permitted to publish a book or a newspaper or even a handbill, until a Russian censor had passed upon it. If you ever visit Poland, you will notice, here and there, groups of tall wooden crosses. They mark graves. But if one of those crosses decays or falls down, it may not be replaced without permission from the government. One night, the cross over the grave of my father's mother was struck by lightning; and for two years it lay there, until permission to replace it had come from Petersburg. It was among such surroundings that my childhood was passed."
Kasia did not seem to realise that, instead of telling about Poland, she was telling about herself; and Dan was deeply moved. He had listened, in his day, to many stories, but never to one like this. It was as though the dead wrappings of history were stripped away, and its seething, desperate, tragic heart laid bare.
"Go on," he said thickly, and folded his arms tightly across his breast.
"My father had hoped to be a student of science," she went on; "but he was refused admission to the university because of some absurd suspicion, and after that he could study only secretly. When he married, he rented a little farm near Warsaw; and there he and mother toiled all day long, and the children too, as soon as they were old enough. There were four children—two boys and two girls. I was the youngest. Twice every year, my mother, my sister and I walked in to Warsaw, and spent a week there helping to clean the streets; this service was required of all families in the villages about Warsaw, and could be escaped only by paying a heavy tax. We had also to assist in keeping the roads in repair, and for this, too, the women and children were employed, since the men could not be spared from the work of the farm. At nightfall we were always exhausted, and would swallow our soup and black bread hastily, and then fling ourselves down, dressed as we were, on a heap of straw in one corner. We were very poor, and yet not so poor as we seemed; but to have added one little comfort to our home would have meant a visit from the tax-inquisitor, and perhaps a search. The only way to escape this was to live in miserable poverty.
"In spite of all this, my father still kept up his studies. At night, after carefully closing the shutters and stuffing the cracks with rags, so that no ray of light could be seen outside, he would light a little tallow dip and sit reading for hours. He read the same books over and over, for books were very hard to get. The ones he wanted were almost always forbidden. To be found possessing one meant banishment. So all of his books he kept concealed even more carefully than he did his money. Indeed, he valued them more!
"Sundays he devoted to the education of his children, always with one of us on guard outside the door. It was then that I learned to read English. Father had taught himself with great thoroughness, because he was determined some day to go to America. America—that was his dream! But how to get there! It seemed certain that he could never save money enough to pay for so many. That problem was soon to be settled."
She paused and put her hand to her throat, shivering a little.
"Are you cold?" Dan asked.
"No; I am trembling at the thought of what remains to tell. A case of cholera appeared in our village. It was reported to the magistrate. At once all the Russian officials removed to Warsaw, and a cordon of Russian troops was thrown about the village. No one was permitted to enter or to leave. The cholera spread. The people were ignorant; they did not know what to do, and there was no one to tell them; they could only wait and pray. At the end of a month, the disease had spent itself, but of those who had lived in the village, only one in ten remained. Of our family, there were left only my father and myself."
Dan's hand went out to hers. She did not draw away.
"For a time," she went on, "father was stunned by the blow; I have always believed that he was very near madness. But he shook off his sorrow and decided that the time had come to seek America. We could not depart openly; that was not permitted; so one night he dug up the little hoard of money he had concealed, cut off my hair and dressed me in boys' clothes, arrayed himself in the rags of a goat-herd, and about midnight we set off. I was eleven years old at the time, and I remember every incident distinctly. We could travel only at night, hiding at every sound. By day, we concealed ourselves under culverts, in ditches, under heaps of brush. Luckily, Polish people are eager to help each other, so we did not starve, and we got forward a little every night. At the end of six weeks, we crossed the frontier and were safe.
"There is not much more to tell. We reached New York; and I was placed in school—I wish you could realise all that meant to me! For a long time, I could not go out into the street without being afraid. It seemed impossible that there was no longer anything to fear. When at last I understood, it was as though a great load were lifted. That was ten years ago. For the past three years, I have been a teacher in the Hester Street school."
She sat silent for a moment, then with a long breath, drew her hand away.
"Do you wonder that I love America?" she asked.
"No," said Dan; "and you have made me a better patriot."
She turned to him, with a little smile.
"And now I think of it," she added, "it was my story I told you, after all!"
"Your story helps me to understand Poland's. That is the way history should be written."
"I think so, too. There is not enough in most histories of the common people. And my father says it is only they who really matter. He has thought very deeply. It is his dream to make all other countries like America—free, peaceful, industrious—only better than America has yet become, in that poverty and inequality and injustice will be abolished."
"A magnificent dream," Dan agreed, with a smile; "but impossible of accomplishment, I'm afraid."
"No, it is not impossible!" she cried quickly. "It will be accomplished, and by him!"
Dan looked at her curiously. Her eyes were blazing, and she spoke with a conviction, with an enthusiasm, which puzzled him.
"Tell me something about your father," he suggested. "You said he was the most wonderful man in the world."
"And I meant it. Could anything be more wonderful than to force all the nations of the earth to break up their navies, to dismantle their forts, to disband their armies? Could anything be more wonderful than to put an end, once for all, to this waste of life and treasure, which is eating at the heart of the world? Could anything be more wonderful than to turn all these armies of useless men back into honest and useful labour? Then no longer would you see women gathering the harvest, or struggling under cruel burdens, or cleaning the streets, or spreading manure over the fields! No, nor walking the pavements of the cities! Would you not say that the man who brought all this about was a wonderful man?"
"Wonderful!" echoed Dan. "Why, wonderful would be no name for it! But it is something that no man can ever do."
"It will be done, believe me," she said, solemnly, "and by my father."
Dan could only stare at her. It seemed absurd to suppose that she could be in earnest; but certainly her face was earnest to solemnity. It shone with consecration.
"But I don't understand," he stammered. "It's too big for me. How is it to be accomplished? How can one man bring it about? I can see how the Czar or Kaiser might set to work, but even they could not hope to succeed. The Czar did try something of the sort, didn't he?"
"Yes; but he was not in earnest, and the other nations laughed. At my father they will not laugh, for he is in deadly earnest. As to how this is to be done, I may not tell you, not yet—some day, perhaps. But one thing I may tell you, and it is this—my father holds the nations of the world in the hollow of his hand!"
For a moment there was silence between them. The moon had risen as they talked, and the dark sea was illumined by a broad path of silver. The boat-deck was almost deserted; the snapping of the wireless had ceased. Miss Vard looked about her with a little start.
"It must be very late," she said. "I must be going."
As Dan followed her across the deck, he noticed a dark figure on the bench next to the one where he and Miss Vard had sat. And as they passed, the stranger struck a match and lighted a cigarette. By the glare of the flame, Dan saw that it was his roommate, Chevrial.
Fritz Ludwig, the tall, blond young man who earned his eighty marks per month as wireless man on the Ottilie, having eaten his dinner with the passengers of the second-cabin and smoked a meditative pipe at the door of the little coop on the after boat-deck which served him as office and bedroom, knocked out the ashes and entered his citadel to prepare for the night's business. But first he connected up his detector and snapped the receivers against his ears, just to see what might be going on. The operator on the Adriatic, a hundred miles behind them, was gossiping with Poldhu, and far ahead two boats were exchanging information about the weather. Then Ludwig glanced up quickly, for a step had sounded at the door, and he saw a man just stepping over the threshold.
"No admittance here!" he called sharply; but the man advanced another step, smiling broadly.
"My dear Fritz!" he said in German. "Do you not know me?"
And Fritz, staring upwards, and seeing his visitor's face clearly, tore off the receivers, sprang to his feet and saluted.
"Admiral Pachmann!" he gasped.
Pachmann laughed. Then he turned, closed the door, and drew the shade before the window.
"Yes, it is I; but don't shout it so loudly, Fritz. Let us sit down. I saw you at dinner to-night—yes, I, too, am of the second class!—and I trembled lest you might recognise me and shout my name out in just that fashion. So, as soon as I could, I hastened up to warn you. I am travelling incognito upon official business, and in public you are not to know me."
"I understand, Herr Admiral," said Fritz. "I shall be most careful."
"It is most important," Pachmann warned him; "and I shall trust you not to forget. How do you like your work here?"
"Very well, sir. I find it very interesting."
"I shall have you back in the service, nevertheless, one of these days," Pachmann said. "Perhaps sooner than you think," he added.
"I am always ready, sir," said Fritz.
Pachmann drew out a cigar and lighted it.
"Go ahead with your work," he said. "There is no music to me so pleasant as the snapping of the spark."
Fritz laughed.
"I know that, sir," he said. "I have an extra receiver, if you care to put it on."
"Yes, give it to me," said the Admiral; and in a moment it, too, was connected with the detector.
Fritz replaced his own, started his converter and snapped out into the air the signal which told the waiting world that the operator of the Ottilie was ready to receive anything it might have to communicate. Almost at once Southampton answered, and there was a little preliminary tuning, till the signals came clear and strong. Then Fritz drew a pad toward him, picked up a freshly sharpened pencil, and told Southampton to go ahead.
"SN three fr DKA," began Southampton. "Time 9:50 G."
Which meant that Southampton had for the Prinzsessin Ottilie three messages and that the time was 9:50 o'clock Greenwich.
Fritz glanced at the clock above his desk.
"Time OK. GA," he signalled, the "GA" being radio for "Go ahead."
"MSG one," went on Southampton. "Eight w Gary. DKA. Directors have command of situation. Morrissy.
"MSG two. Nine w Gardenshire, DKA. Missed boat will follow by Carmania. Hickle.
"MSG three. Eleven w Hodges, DKA. Coffee will go thirteen Thursday shall I sell. Perkins."
Fritz had taken it all down with religious care. At the last word he snapped open his key.
"OK. Thanks GN," he ticked off, the "GN" being, of course, "good-night."
He waited a moment, but there were no other calls for the Ottilie, and he took off his receiver. Pachmann followed suit.
"That was a great pleasure," said the latter. "The signals are very clear to-night."
"If you could come in later on, sir," Fritz suggested, "you could hear the news service from Poldhu. There is a station for you!"
"At what hour does the service start?" asked Pachmann.
"Poldhu always calls at eleven-thirty, sir, and starts the news service as soon as the commercial business is out of the way."
"I shall try to be here," said Pachmann. "This long-distance service is a great delight to me, especially when it works so clearly as it does to-night. You will not forget about my incognito?"
"I shall not forget, sir," Fritz assured him, and with a short nod, Pachmann left the house. Fritz sat down again to copy out his messages and to send three or four which the captain's steward at that moment brought in. That done, he thrust his head out for a breath of air, noticed with a grin the couples who had already discovered the advantages of the boat-deck benches, and then went back to his key for a little gossip with such other Marconi men as might be within reach. It was nearly eleven-thirty, and all of them were sitting at their tables, waiting for the far-flung signal which would tell that the operator at Poldhu, that lonely station on the last sheer cliff of Cornwall, was ready for his night's work. And a minute later, the door opened and Pachmann came in.
"I could not resist your invitation, Fritz," he said. "This gets into one's blood," and he adjusted the extra receiver and sat down.
Almost at once came the CQ, CQ, CQ, ZZ, ZZ, ZZ, which told that Poldhu was calling for all stations and on every ship within a thousand miles of that point of rock, the wireless man tuned up his instrument, and waited. The commercial messages came first, and there were a lot of them; four for the Ottilie, three for the Adriatic, five to be relayed far ahead to the Mauretania, one for the incoming Majestic, and one for the Rotterdam. Then the Poldhu man announced that he was ready to receive, and as many more were sent out into the night to him, for relay on to London, and from there to far-separated points on the continent. At last there was a moment's pause, a moment's silence, and then the SP, SP, SP, which told that the news service was about to start. And every man within hearing picked up a fresh pencil and made ready to write, as from dictation.
"SP, SP, SP," snapped Poldhu. "Time 12:54 G. Three hundred wds.
"War between Italy and Turkey seems inevitable stop Italy gives Turkey twenty-four hours to agree to Italy's occupation of Tripoli stop Six thousand troops at Palermo ready to embark stop Turkish munitions and reinforcements already landed stop Board of Inquiry into La Liberté disaster goes into secret session stop Rumour of attempt to destroy La Patrie also stop Moroccan situation grows more serious stop Germany demands equal rights with France abrogating Algeciras treaty stop Directors steel trust declare company is legal corporation and will not take voluntary steps to dissolve stop Officially announced at Chicago that one hundred thousand men on Harriman lines will strike Saturday stop September coffee sells at twelve-ninety-eight New York exchange record price stop Boy Scouts called out to fight plague of wasps in England stop...."
And so on to the end of the message. And when the end was reached, the man at Poldhu waited fifteen minutes and then started all over again and sent the message a second time, so that every one would be sure to get it all. Then he shut off and went to bed.
Thursday dawned clear and warm, and the Ottilie's passengers, appearing on deck by twos and threes, rejoiced that the day was to be a fine one. They found the world-news of the day before awaiting them on the bulletin board at the head of the main companion-way, and had great fun deciphering it, very few of them stopping to think how wonderful it was that it should be there at all. And then some of them celebrated their first morning at sea by a three-mile tramp before breakfast; others, less strenuous, lounged at the rail, waiting impatiently for the breakfast-gong; a few, finding themselves disturbed by the slow and even motion of the ship, bundled themselves up in their steamer-chairs and hoped that nature would soon readjust itself. Then the gong sounded, and the deck was deserted, except by the bundled-up occupants of the chairs, to whom the solicitous deck-steward brought, more or less vainly, various light articles of food.
An hour later, the decks were full again. From the upper deck came the clack of shuffle-board; on the promenade deck the chairs were full of novel-readers, and little groups here and there were making each other's acquaintance. The life of shipboard had begun.
On the boat-deck, various passengers, singly or in twos and threes, paused to listen to the crackle of electricity which came from the little wireless-house. The door was closed, but by standing on tiptoe they could see over the screen at the window, and catch a glimpse of a blond young man, with a receiver clamped over both ears, bending above his key, from which came a series of vicious-looking sparks. The sound was vaguely disquieting, suggesting lightning to the more timid, or some strange and dangerous force of nature not to be trifled with, so most of them preferred to descend again to the upper promenade, or to sit down some distance away. Presently two men climbed the ladder from the deck below, and looked about them.
"Let us sit here," said the younger of them, in German, and motioned toward a bench which had been built against the cabin.
"Very well, Your...." He stopped himself abruptly. "It is difficult to break oneself of a long habit," he said, with a little laugh; and, waiting for the other to seat himself, sat down beside him.
They lighted cigarettes and sat for a moment without speaking.
There was a considerable difference in the ages of the two. One was past middle-age, heavily-built, and with a face bronzed as only years of exposure to wind and rain could bronze it. His upper lip was a shade or two lighter than the rest of his face, and spoke of a moustache recently removed. The other man had also an outdoor look, but he had not been hardened by long service as his companion had. He was softer, more effeminate. He seemed to be not over twenty-one or two, was tall, a little too much inclined to plumpness, but with an open and ingenuous countenance, lighted by a pair of honest blue eyes.
"It is good," said the older man, at last, speaking in German and in a tone carefully guarded, "to sit here and listen to the crackle of the wireless—it seems to fit in, somehow, with this beautiful morning. I have grown to love it; and I have never conquered my wonder—it is so marvellous that one can throw into the atmosphere a message to be picked up and understood hundreds of miles away. It seems even more wonderful on the ocean than on the land. A message that travels as fast as light travels. Think of it, my Prince!"
"It is, indeed, wonderful," the younger man agreed. "But it seems to me, my dear Admiral, that, if what you tell me is true, there is in the world at this moment something more wonderful still—a force which even you do not understand."
"You are right," agreed the older man, gravely. "But we must understand it—we must control it. It means world-empire!"
Both their faces were set and serious, and they spoke almost in whispers, with a glance from time to time to make sure no one was near, or a lapse into silence when any one approached.
"If we succeed," the younger man began; but the other grasped him by the arm.
"There must be no 'if,'" he protested. "Do not permit yourself to use that word. There must be no failure! Think, for a moment, of the tremendous issues which hang upon it! And, after all, the game is in our hands."
"I have not yet met the inventor," said the younger man; "but from what you have told me, I fear he is an enthusiast who will make difficulties. However, as you say, we must succeed at any price."
"Yes; at any price!" and as he uttered the words, the Admiral glanced searchingly at his companion's face. But the other was gazing out across the water, and did not seem to notice the other's peculiar emphasis.
Again they sat silent as three or four persons, passing, paused to peer in at the window of the wireless-house.
"Are you sure the French do not suspect?" asked the younger man, when they had gone.
"How could they?"
"The inventor must have left some trace—that wireless station in the grove."
"A small affair, well hidden. Even if it is discovered, it cannot possibly be connected with the disaster."
"Perhaps not. But the other installation?"
"The other installation was brought away by the inventor. He left nothing behind except some batteries, which can betray no secret."
"And he has the mechanism with him now?"
"Yes—in his baggage. You see how complete our power is."
"I see," nodded the other briefly. "You have arranged a conference with him?"
"I will do so. There is plenty of time."
"Why do we go to America?"
"It is a whim of his—that this great treaty should be signed there. We had to humour him, or he might have grown suspicious. I think he is a little mad."
Again there was a moment's silence. Then the older man threw away his cigarette and rose.
"The wireless man is an old protégé of mine," he said. "I spent a very pleasant hour with him last night. If you do not object, I will go in again to see him."
The other nodded, and Pachmann opened the door of the wireless-house and disappeared inside. His companion lighted another cigarette and smoked it gloomily, as his thoughts reverted to his own affairs. It was flattering, of course, that he should have been selected to accompany Pachmann on this mission; but, nevertheless, he regretted Berlin—or, rather, he regretted a certain blue-eyed, flaxen-haired girl, with a figure like Juno's.... Confound it! It was only to separate him from her that he had been sent with Pachmann! Why couldn't his father leave him alone! He was old enough to manage his own affairs! And besides....
The door of the wireless-house opened and Pachmann appeared. Very quietly he closed the door, very quietly he sat down beside his companion. And then he mopped a shining forehead with a hand that trembled visibly, and the younger man saw with astonishment that his face was livid.
"What is it? What has happened?" he asked.
Pachmann tried twice before he found his voice. When he did speak, it was in a hoarse whisper.
"I was wrong," he said. "France does suspect!"
A little group of laughing young women came scurrying up the ladder from the promenade, and the Admiral and his companion sat stonily silent until they had passed. Then the Admiral spoke again, still in a whisper, but his voice was under control.
"The most astounding thing has happened," he said. "I cannot understand it. The operator in there has just received a message from Cherbourg, asking if there is not on board, in stateroom 514, a man named Ignace Vard, accompanied by his daughter. It is signed by Lépine, chief of the French secret service."
The younger man drew a quick, sibilant breath, and his face, too, turned pale beneath the tan.
"But how could he know?" he gasped. "How could he suspect?"
"Lépine is the very devil!" growled the other. "Perhaps it was that wireless installation, as you suggested."
"But that could not betray the man's name—the boat—even his stateroom!"
"No; I cannot understand it," and Pachmann mopped his face again. Then he thrust his handkerchief back into his pocket and sprang to his feet. "However it occurred, we must stop it," he said. "Come."
"Stop it—but how?"
"There is only one way. Come!"
The Admiral hurried down the ladder, his companion at his heels. From the upper promenade he descended to the deck below, and then, without hesitating, climbed another ladder and stepped over a low gate which gave entrance to the first-class promenade. The gate, it is true, bore a sign stating that second-class passengers must not pass it; but Pachmann did not even glance at it. He seemed to know the ship, for he pressed on, disregarding the curious glances cast at himself and his companion, mounted again to the boat-deck, and did not pause until he had reached its extreme forward end, just under the bridge. There he stopped at a door just abaft the ladder leading to the bridge and knocked sharply.
"Enter!" cried a voice, and the younger man, following the Admiral, found himself in a large and handsome stateroom, whose windows looked straight forward over the bow. At the desk a bearded man of middle-age was glancing through some papers. He looked up at the intruders with evident astonishment. "Really, gentlemen," he began, and then he stopped, his gaze shifting from one face to the other and back again in frank bewilderment.
"Captain Hausmann," said the Admiral, stepping forward, "probably you do not remember me, since we have met but once. But I think you know the Prince."
Captain Hausmann's eyes widened, and he sprang quickly to his feet, his hand at the visor of his cap.
"Your Highness," he began, but the Prince stopped him.
"I am not a Highness at present, Captain," he said, laughing; "only a humble passenger of the second class. I am very glad to see you again," and, holding out his hand, he gave that of the astonished mariner a hearty clasp.
"A passenger of the second class!" stammered the Captain. "But I do not understand!"
"It is not necessary that you should," said the Admiral, curtly, and at the words, the Captain reddened a little.
"Ah, now I know you," he said, quietly. "Admiral Pachmann," and again he saluted.
"Yes," said the Admiral, acknowledging the salute. "We had not intended to betray, even to you, our presence on board, but an unforeseen circumstance has made it necessary. No one else, of course, must suspect it. All that you need to know—indeed, all that we are permitted to tell you—is that His Highness and myself are at this moment engaged upon an affair of state of the first importance. Here are my credentials."
He took from an inner pocket a long leather pocket-book, extracted from it a heavy envelope sealed with a great black seal, and passed it to the Captain.
The latter took it, glanced at the seal and hesitated, for it bore the Imperial crown.
"Do you intend that I should open this?" he asked.
"I wish you to do so," answered Pachmann.
With fingers that trembled a little, the Captain loosened the seal, lifted the flap, and drew out the sheet of paper which lay within. It was an ivory-finished white, almost as stiff as a card, the entire upper left quarter occupied by the Imperial crown and monogram, the other three quarters covered by writing in a large and rather stiff hand, with a scrawling signature at the bottom. The Captain glanced at this signature, then, his face very grave, read the missive slowly and carefully. Finally he returned the sheet to its envelope, and handed it back to Pachmann, his eyes meeting the Admiral's with a kind of awed wonder.
"I am at your service," he said. "Will you...."
There was a tap at the door. The Captain went to it and opened it, standing so that his body filled the doorway. He exchanged a word with some one, and then closed the door and turned back into the room, a sheaf of papers in his hand.
"Will you not sit down?" he asked.
"We shall be but a moment," said Pachmann. "That was the wireless man, was it not?"
"Yes."
"Among the messages you have in your hand is one from Lépine, Prefect of the Paris Service du Surété. He asks whether you have aboard in stateroom 514 a man named Ignace Vard, accompanied by his daughter."
Captain Hausmann, with an admirable composure, glanced through the messages.
"Yes; here it is," he said.
"I will dictate the answer," said the Admiral.
Without a word, the Captain sat down again at his desk and wrote to Pachmann's dictation: