he deck reserved for the use of the crew.

* * * * *

A mast loomed overhead, with its heavy, clumsy derrick-booms. A winch
was by his side. Oddments of deck machinery, inexplicable to a
landsman, formed themselves vaguely in the mist. The fog was thicker,
naturally, since the deck was closer to the water's edge.

"Hey!" growled a voice close beside him. "Passengers ain't allowed
down here."

An unshaven, soot-smeared figure loomed up. Bell could not see the man
save as a blur in the mist, but he said cheerfully:

"I know it, but I wanted to look. Seafaring's a trade I'd like to know
something about."

The figure grunted. Bell had just given his word of honor that he
wasn't a member of the Secret Service. He wasn't. But he was in the
Trade--which has no official existence anywhere. And the use of the
word in his first remark was a recognition signal.

"What is your trade, anyways?" growled the figure skeptically.

"I sharpen serpents' teeth from time to time," offered Bell amiably.
He recognized the man, suddenly. "Hullo, Jamison, you look like the
devil."

* * * * *

Jamison drew nearer. He grunted softly.

"I know it. Listen closely, Bell. Your job is getting some information
from Canalejas, Minister of War in Rio. He sent word up to Washington
that he'd something important to say. It isn't treachery to Brazil,
because he's a decent man. Seven Secret Service men have disappeared
in South America within three months. They've found the eighth, and
he's crazy. Something has driven him mad, and they say it's a devilish
poison. He's a homicidal maniac, returning to the United States in a
straight-jacket. Canalejas knows what's happened to the Service men.
He said so, and he's going to tell us. His daughter brought the news
to Washington, and then instead of going on to Europe as she was
supposed to do, she started back to Rio. You're to get this formation
and pass it on to me, then try to keep your skin whole and act
innocent. You were picked out because, as a State Department man, hell
could be raised if you vanished. Understand?"

Bell nodded.

"Something horrible is going on. Secret Service can't do anything. The
man in Asuncion isn't dead--he's been seen--but he's cut loose. And
Service men don't often do that. He don't report. That means the
Service code may have been turned over, and hell to pay generally.
It's up to the Trade."

"I've g