ld,
cold voice of logic, like a calm speaker quieting the incendiary passion
of a mob.

It was her right to make the test unhampered, since--through his own
delinquency--it was too late to avoid the test.

Two courses lay open to him now that the past was sealed. He might
return to his own country, excusing himself on the shallow pretense that
he meant only to "stand by" in case she needed rescue from the
unendurable, or he might turn his face east and put between himself and
temptation as much of space as lies between Cape Cod and the Ganges.

The two alternatives were, roughly, those of passion and reason, yet
each was led by so many tributary problems that it was not easy to
disentangle the threads of their elements.

Stuart Farquaharson's inheritance of fighting blood brought a red
blindness which at times made the voice of reason seem contemptible and
pallid with cowardice.

Could Eben Tollman, whom he had always distrusted, have engineered the
thing?

Stuart, pacing the deck, halted at the thought and his fevered temples
turned abruptly cold. His face set itself into malignant lines of
vengeance. If such a thing could be proven--as there was a God in
Heaven--Tollman was his to kill and he should die! He stood for a while,
his chest heaving with the agitation of his resolve--and then he smiled
grimly to himself. The calmer voice denounced him for a fool running
amuck with passion. These were thoughts suited to a homicidal half-wit.

How could Eben have achieved such an end? It was absurd to seek such a
reason for the fatality of his own senseless course. He had himself to
blame.

Buffeted between the two influences, fighting a desperate duel with
himself, Farquaharson paced the deck all night.

At times his face burned and his eyes smoldered with a fever only half
sane. At times cold sweat stood on his temples and he trembled, with
every muscle lax and inert. As dawn began to lighten the eastern
sky-line no man could say--and least of all himself--which counsel would
in the end prevail.

When the purser appeared on deck he gazed perplexedly at the haggard and
distracted face which confronted him and the nervous pitch of the voice
that put rapid questions. It was obvious that this solitary passenger
had not been in his berth.

"What is our first port of call, and when do we reach it?" demanded
Farquaharson.

"Brindisi. To-morrow."

"From Brindisi what are the most immediate connections respectively