he idea of a business man which followed. He, at his own expense,
would raise the Maine. If it were true that the explosion occurred from
outside, he would find the money. You see, the message has arrived.
After all these years the sea has given up its secret. Marsine will
return to Spain with an unlimited credit behind him. The House of
Brangaza will crumble up like a pack of cards."

Sogrange looked out into the darkness. Perhaps he saw in that great
black gulf the pictures of these happenings which his companion had
prophesied. Perhaps, for a moment, he saw the panorama of a city in
flames, the passing of a great country under the thrall of these new
ideas. At any rate, he turned abruptly away from the side of the vessel,
and taking Peter's arm, walked slowly down the deck.

"You have solved the puzzle, Baron," he said, gravely. "Now tell me the
one thing. Your story seems to dovetail everywhere."

"The one thing," Peter said, "is connected with the Duchesse. It was
she, of her own will, who decided to come to America. I believe that,
but for her coming, Bernadine and the Prince would have waited in their
own country. Money can flash from America to England over the wires. It
does not need to be fetched. They have still one fear. It is connected
with the Duchesse. Let me think."

They walked up and down the deck. The lights were extinguished one by
one, except in the smoking-room. A strange breed of sailors from the
lower deck came up with mops and buckets. The wind changed its quarter
and the great ship began to roll. Peter stopped abruptly.

"I find this motion most unpleasant," he said. "I am going to bed.
To-night I cannot think. To-morrow, I promise you, we will solve this.
Hush!"

He held out his hand and drew his companion back into the shadow of
a lifeboat. A tall figure was approaching them along the deck. As he
passed the little ray of light thrown out from the smoking-room, the
man's features were clearly visible. It was the Prince. He was walking
like one absorbed in thought. His eyes were set like a sleep-walker's.
With one hand he gesticulated. The fingers of the other were twitching
all the time. His head was lifted to the skies. There was something in
his face which redeemed it from its disfiguring petulance.

"It is the man who dreams of power," Peter whispered. "It is one of his
best moments, this. He forgets the vulgar means by which he intends to
rise. He thinks only of himself, the dictato