What do you suppose became of the other operator?" Tom asked, a little
anxiously.

"I don't know," said Mr. Conne. "We'll have to find some one who does
know," he added significantly, and Tom wondered what he meant.

"Do you think he's guilty of anything?" he asked.

"Don't know. You've knocked my theories all endways, young fellow," Mr.
Conne said pleasantly; and then he added, smiling, "You say he was a
scout; I'm getting to have a pretty good opinion of scouts."

"But those finger-prints----"

"Were his," concluded Mr. Conne.

Tom was greatly puzzled, but he said nothing. Soon Dr. Curry was pointed
out to them. He was pacing up and down the deck, and paused at the rail
as they neared so that they were able to get a good look at him. He was
tall and thin, with a black mustache and a very aristocratic hooked
nose. Perhaps there was the merest suggestion of the foreigner about
him, but nothing in particular to suggest the German unless it were a
touch of that scornfully superior air which is so familiar in pictures
of the Kaiser.

"So that's the Doctor, is it?" Mr. Conne commented, eyeing him with his
cigar cocked up sideways. "Looks kind of savage, huh?"

But the doctor's savage mien did not phase Mr. Conne in the least, for
he sauntered up to him with a friendly and familiar air, though Tom was
trembling all over.

"Excuse me, would you oblige me with the time?" Mr. Conne said
pleasantly.

The stranger wheeled about suddenly with a very pronounced military air
and looked at his questioner.

"The time? Yes, sir," he said, with brisk formality and taking out his
watch. "It is just half-past six."

Mr. Conne drew out his own watch and looked at it for a moment as if
perplexed. "Then one of us is about an hour out of the way," he said
sociably, while Tom stood by in anxious suspense. "According to the
alarm clock down in the store-room, I guess _you're_ right," he added.

"What?" said the passenger, disconcerted.

"According to the time-bomb down below," repeated Mr. Conne, still
sociably but with a keen, searching look. "What's the matter? You
suffering from nerves, Doctor?"

The sudden thrust, enveloped in Mr. Conne's easy manner, had indeed
taken the doctor almost off his feet.

"I do not understand you, sir," he said, with forbidding dignity and
trying to regain his poise.

"Well, then, I'll explain," said Mr. Conne; "you forgot to set your
watch when you left Cleveland, Doc, so there won't be an