LITMIR.BIZ

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surprised but happy gleam of recognition. Whitridge did not see her, although he appeared to be looking straight at her. She paused, where she followed a Chinese steward aft, and looked over her shoulder at him as he went forward.

      "Who is that, Moore—the one in black?" asked Evans stepping up to the window. "Something familiar about her."

      "Elsie of Shanghai," said the purser in an undertone. "Sold out and going home."

      "Ah," murmured Evans with a lifting of his brows. "Knew her from her pictures. They're in every conceivable place."

      "She has played 'the game' for all there was in it," answered the purser.

      "Say, Moore," and Evans' voice was serious, "we've picked up a rotter here all right." The purser glanced up inquisitively. "Lavelle of the Yakutat's aboard."

      "Wrong, sir. Can't be. Why—that fellow's dead, Mr. Evans. Died out East here somewhere. Saw it in the home papers only a little while ago."

      "He's not dead by a long shot. He's aboard here."

      "There's no Lavelle on the passenger list."

      "That means nothing," and Evans described Whitridge.

      "Why, that man's name's Whitridge—an Englishman."

      "Well, he's Lavelle."

      "He was here——"

      The purser stopped suddenly, a startled look came into his eyes; his face flushed.

      Evans, following his gaze in wonderment, turned and stepped quickly aside. Emily Granville was standing there, her maid beside her carrying a jewel case.

      "I wish to deposit this with you, purser," she said.

      There was a tremor in her voice. Every bit of color was gone from her face. It might have been a piece of Wedgwood. She paused only long enough to indicate that the maid would take the purser's receipt.

      "Lord, but that woman's a dream," whispered Evans after the maid had passed out of hearing. The purser looked up at him strangely. "But say, old man, what's the matter with you?"

      "I wonder if she heard you say that—that Lavelle is aboard here?"

      "Why? What if she did?"

      "That's Emily Granville, of San Francisco—old John Granville's daughter. Granville and his wife were lost with the Yakutat, you know. Lavelle beat them away from the side of his boat with an oar—drowned them."

      "My God!" exclaimed Evans, and he looked at the purser blankly.

CHAPTER IV

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      Emily Granville could not have helped hearing what was said at the purser's window. The shock of the revelation stunned her. It seemed impossible that fate could have placed her in the same ship with the man whose fiendishness had gloomed her whole life.

      With her nerves overwrought and her senses reeling, she sought her berth. There she argued with herself that the man who had spoken to the purser must be mistaken. It was not true, she persisted in thinking. The man whom the steamship agency manager had told her was Captain Whitridge—the man who had given up his room to her—could not be Lavelle. His was not a face that could mask such a fiend. It was too fine and yet the sadness of it—the pain she had seen in his eyes—returned to startle her.

      "I can't! I won't believe it!" she said to herself over and over again, fighting the sense of foreboding that grew in her heart.

      But dinner time brought a brutal confirmation. A passenger at the captain's table where Emily Granville sat blurted out, before the skipper could stop him, how the Cambodia's first officer had seen the man called Whitridge come aboard and had recognized him as Lavelle. He pointed him out, sitting with bent head, at a table across the saloon.

      With white face and scared, staring eyes Emily Granville left her place. Somehow she got to her room. A little while later her maid found her senseless in her berth and revived her only to hear her cry and moan that furies—black furies—were tearing at her pillow. And she breathed heavily as one spent from swimming.

      Before the Cambodia had dropped Mera Head behind the horizon the loss of the Alaskan liner Yakutat had been dragged out of its ten-year past and gossiped from one end of the ship to the other. What details proved elusive were blithely manufactured into the fabric of a sea disaster which had shocked the world and made a nation ashamed. Men shook their heads ominously and women shuddered as the fact passed from mouth to mouth that Lavelle, the Yakutat's second officer, who had beaten drowning passengers with an oar, was among them. When it became known that Emily Granville, whose parents had been driven away from Lavelle's boat, was also in the Cambodia and lying ill in her room from the shock of knowing that Lavelle was a fellow-passenger, a tenseness came upon things that made the nerves of the liner's officers raw.

      Paul Lavelle did not enter the dining saloon after that first night. It became known that he took his meals in his room and left it only after darkness fell. Watch officers saw him from the bridge now and then—a shadow in the night.

      "Wandering around like a pariah dog," one of them told a passenger. Often they saw "The Shadow" as late as dawn.

      But this night—it was the fifth out of Yokohama—the deck saw "The Shadow" earlier than it was his wont to appear. The saloon was bright and gay with an entertainment and Lavelle was taking advantage of this. He met only one or two straying couples in the darkness and they soon went inside. It was not a night that invited one with moon or star. He could remember few nights like it. It was a dead black—shocking in its intensity. The Cambodia might have been a ship without funnels or masts. Everything was cut off sheer by the blackness. There was a light breeze which seemed to dart out from every point of the compass at once. It whimpered as it went by his ears.

      After a long, steady, hard walk "The Shadow" sought out his favorite vigil post against the pipe rail under the weather wing of the bridge. It was to port to-night, although it was hard to tell the weather side from the lee. He gleaned some comfort from the thought that the liner was rapidly slipping down to "the corner"—the intersection of the 180th meridian and the 30th parallel—through which ships great circle between Yokohama and the Hawaiian Islands. She was due to turn it the following afternoon and that meant half his passage in her done. He had determined to quit the ship at Honolulu.

      Just after the lights went out in the saloon at one bell—a half-hour after midnight—and the silence of the dark hours had settled upon the ship, he sensed somebody stealing along the side of the deck house. He fixed a shape finally, but no sooner had he done so than it disappeared. He could not tell whether it was the form of a man or woman. Then, he heard a heavy breath at his feet and jumped back defensively. A hand touched him and he grabbed it.

      "Master!" whispered a voice in Chinese. Chang rose beside him.

      "Chang," was all he could say. He was overwhelmed by the loyalty of this yellow heart which could give and give and ask no return.

      "I stow way. Make him work—shubbel coal like hell. No can kom-men here bee-fore. I go 'Flisco." Lavelle heard the sound of a heavy footfall approaching. Chang's ears caught it, too. "Good-by. To-mollah night I kom-men gain."

      A lantern light cut the darkness and the ship's night watchman dashed round from the lee side of the deck house, with a club raised to strike. He lowered his arm as he discovered Lavelle.

      "Seen anything of a big coolie stoker round here, sir?"

      "No," answered Lavelle.

      "Been tryin' to get aroun' up here the past three nights," and the watchman muttered off into the blackness.

      "The Shadow" pondered a long time as to what he could do for Chang, but he could come to no decision. The thought that he was in the ship cheered him though as he went to

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