ng of conscience had made the Magyar girl's life a
torment. "It is not for me to judge you; it is only for me to help
you!" sadly said the young physician.

"You have aided to bring many sorrows and sufferings on others!
Work out your own salvation! You were born a Catholic.

"Your religion has orders where repentant women can toil among the
suffering in schools or in the hospitals. It has its great work
among the helpless. Hide your dangerous beauty there, among those
who give their lives up to good works.

"And you will find peace and hope stealing to your side. God gave
you a life; you have no right to throw it away." The poor, repentant,
soiled one seized his hand and kissed it, while bitter tears rained
from her eyes. "I will work; I will go where I cannot be hunted
into a deeper hell than my accusing conscience brings up!"

There was a grim vigilance in every movement of Dennis McNerney as
he watched the now haggard-eyed Braun in the tank cell far below
the decks, where Fashion's children gaily chattered.

Only a few gruff sentences had ever escaped the murderer on the long
voyage, and only a horrible curse had answered the proposition of
Atwater and McNerney that a full confession might, in some way,
soften the brute's impending doom.

The room where Braun was confined was bare of all lethal implements
with which he might effect a suicide, and two stalwart men were
his room-mates.

When the quartermasters, at midnight, peered out for the first
glimpse of Fire Island light, Dennis McNerney, pacing the deserted
deck, almost alone, revolved his plan of inspecting the sullen
prisoner at intervals of every three hours during the night. "It
is a desperate human brute, that one," muttered the sturdy policeman;
"but, I've brought him safely home."

While a wild coast storm raged, and the screaming gulls circled
around the plunging ship; while shrill winds moaned in the steel
rigging, McNerney crept down for the last time before sighting
land, at four o'clock, to peer through the grated door and see
Fritz Braun lying prone--a confused heap--his coat rolled up as a
pillow under his head.

The wounded arm alone was free; the other, shackled to a broad
belt, was locked around the prisoner's waist.

"He is sleeping like a child," mused the officer. "In a few hours
he will be safely in the Tombs, and my long watch will be over!"

The great liner was grandly sweeping up to Quarantine, when Dennis
McNerne