d again, in the stifling forecastle, Bedient had swooned from
the heat, the vile air and his utter weakness. Only he had nailed to
his brain surfaces, through terrific concentration, an expectancy for
Miss Mallory's signals; otherwise they would have failed to rouse him.
He had come forth more dead than alive, with only a glimmering of what
he was to do, until he saw the hand of Celestino Rey move toward his
pocket. Then a strange jolt of strength shook him, and he had the
pistol. It was like that day on the _Truxton_. Afterward he heard the
words of Miss Mallory insisting that Sorenson could swim, and amusement
helped to clear his consciousness. A queer sense that he was not to
lose in these lesser affairs possessed him; that enough strength,
enough intelligence would be given, a peculiar inner sustaining which
he was odd enough to accept as authoritative.... And now he heard
Framtree's words, and a water-bottle on the table beside the pistol
magnetized his eye. He poured out a glassful and drank, and the thought
came--apart from his listening to Framtree--if only other agonies could
be eased with the swift directness of his thirst-torture that moment.

"I wanted you to go back on the _Hatteras_, Mr. Framtree," he said.
"The _Henlopen_ won't sail for a week. We won't lose sight of each
other, so there is time. As for our talk, we must be alone."

The words crippled Framtree's hostility, but he did not forget Rey. It
was a hard moment for him.

"One wouldn't think you had a week--to judge by the chances you took in
turning this trick to-day," he said.

The Spaniard's bony shoulders sank a little in his lids dropped for an
instant.

"You proved so hard to reach in these days of preparation," Bedient
replied, "that I feared I might fail altogether in case of
eventualities. And we had reason to think that to-night marked the end
of Equatorian peace."

Rey moistened his lips, watching Framtree, but did not speak.

"It must be damned important," Framtree said.

"It is," Bedient answered, and the American woman listening intently at
the wheel did not miss the change in his voice.

Meanwhile the yellow-brown face of the Spaniard had scarcely altered,
except perhaps that the pallid scar had a bit more shine about it. His
eyes moved around the cabin, darting often at the pistol, halting upon
the knob of the forecastle-door in the fear that others might be
concealed there; inscrutable black brilliants, these eyes, and t