t the game is,
but I'm going to take Miss Norman back with me if I have to break in every
door on board!"

Cleigh stood up. As he did so Dodge, the Texan appeared in the doorway to
the dining salon. Dennison saw the blue barrel of a revolver.

"A gunman, eh? All right. Let's see if he'll shoot," said the son, walking
deliberately toward Dodge.

"No, Dodge!" Cleigh called out as the Texan, raised the revolver. "You may
go."

Dodge, a good deal astonished, backed out. Once more father and son stared
at each other.

"Better call it off," advised the son. "You can't hold Miss Norman--and I
can make a serious charge. Bring her at once, or I'll go for her. And the
Lord help the woodwork if I start!"

But even as he uttered the threat Dennison heard a sound behind. He
turned, but not soon enough. In a second he was on the floor, three husky
seamen mauling him. They had their hands full for a while, but in the end
they conquered.

"What next, sir?" asked one of the sailors, breathing hard.

"Tie him up and lock him in Cabin Two."

The first order was executed. After Dennison's arms and ankles were bound
the men stood him up.

"Are you really my father?"

Cleigh returned to his cards and shuffled them for a new deal.

"Don't untie him. He might walk through the partition. He will have the
freedom of the deck when we are out of the delta."

Dennison was thereupon carried to Cabin Two, and deposited upon the
stationary bed. He began to laugh. There was a sardonic note in this
laughter, like that which greets you when you recount some incredible
tale. His old cabin!

The men shook their heads, as if confronted by something so unusual that
it wasn't worth while to speculate upon it. The old man's son! They went
out, locking the door. By this time Dennison's laughter had reached the
level of shouting, but only he knew how near it was to tears--wrathful,
murderous, miserable tears! He fought his bonds terrifically for a moment,
then relaxed.

For seven years he had been hugging the hope that when he and his father
met blood would tell, and that their differences would vanish in a strong
handclasp; and here he lay, trussed hand and foot, in his old cabin, not a
crack in that granite lump his father called a heart!

A childish thought! Some day to take that twenty thousand with accrued
interest, ride up to the door, step inside, dump the silver on that old
red Samarkand, and depart--forever.

Where was she? This s