st angrily. As he did so, much to my bewilderment, he glared at me.
At the same moment Kinney grabbed me by the arm.

"Come below!" he commanded. His tone was hoarse and thrilling with
excitement.

"Our adventures," he whispered, "have begun!"

II

I felt, for me, adventures had already begun, for my meeting with the
beautiful lady was the event of my life, and though Kinney and I had
agreed to share our adventures, of this one I knew I could not even
speak to him. I wanted to be alone, where I could delight in it, where I
could go over what she had said; what I had said. I would share it
with no one. It was too wonderful, too sacred. But Kinney would not be
denied. He led me to our cabin and locked the door.

"I am sorry," he began, "but this adventure is one I cannot share with
you." The remark was so in keeping with my own thoughts that with sudden
unhappy doubt I wondered if Kinney, too, had felt the charm of the
beautiful lady. But he quickly undeceived me.

"I have been doing a little detective work," he said. His voice was
low and sepulchral. "And I have come upon a real adventure. There are
reasons why I cannot share it with you, but as it develops you can
follow it. About half an hour ago," he explained, "I came here to get my
pipe. The window was open. The lattice was only partly closed. Outside
was that young man from Harvard who tried to make my acquaintance,
and the young Englishman who came on board with that blonde." Kinney
suddenly interrupted himself. "You were talking to her just now," he
said. I hated to hear him speak of the Irish lady as "that blonde." I
hated to hear him speak of her at all. So, to shut him off, I answered
briefly: "She asked me about the Singer Building."

"I see," said Kinney. "Well, these two men were just outside my window,
and, while I was searching for my pipe, I heard the American speaking.
He was very excited and angry. 'I tell you,' he said, 'every boat and
railroad station is watched. You won't be safe till we get away from
New York. You must go to your cabin, and STAY there.' And the other one
answered: 'I am sick of hiding and dodging.'"

Kinney paused dramatically and frowned.

"Well," I asked, "what of it?"

"What of it?" he cried. He exclaimed aloud with pity and impatience.

"No wonder," he cried, "you never have adventures. Why, it's plain
as print. They are criminals escaping. The Englishman certainly is
escaping."

I was concerned only for