recognition of Anstruther's undoubted claims for services
rendered.

"She is an enthusiastic, high-spirited girl," he urged upon his
surprised hearer, who expected a very different expression of opinion.
"This fellow Anstruther is a plausible sort of rascal, a good man in a
tight place too--just the sort of fire-eating blackguard who would fill
the heroic bill where a fight is concerned. Damn him, he licked me
twice."

Further amazement for the shipowner.

"Yes, it's quite true. I interfered with his little games, and he gave
me the usual reward of the devil's apothecary. Leave Iris alone. At
present she is strung up to an intense pitch of gratitude, having
barely escaped a terrible fate. Let her come back to the normal.
Anstruther's shady record must gradually leak out. That will disgust
her. In a week she will appeal to you to buy him off. He is hard
up--cut off by his people and that sort of thing. There you probably
have the measure of his scheming. He knows quite well that he can never
marry your daughter. It is all a matter of price."

Sir Arthur willingly allowed himself to be persuaded. At the back of
his head there was an uneasy consciousness that it was not "all a
matter of price." If it were he would never trust a man's face again.
But Ventnor's well-balanced arguments swayed him. The course indicated
was the only decent one. It was humanly impossible for a man to chide
his daughter and flout her rescuer within an hour of finding them.

Lord Ventnor played his cards with a deeper design. He bowed to the
inevitable. Iris said she loved his rival. Very well. To attempt to
dissuade her was to throw her more closely into that rival's arms. The
right course was to appear resigned, saddened, compelled against his
will to reveal the distressing truth. Further, he counted on
Anstruther's quick temper as an active agent. Such a man would be the
first to rebel against an assumption of pitying tolerance. He would
bring bitter charges of conspiracy, of unbelievable compact to secure
his ruin. All this must recoil on his own head when the facts were laid
bare. Not even the hero of the island could prevail against the
terrible indictment of the court-martial. Finally, at Singapore, three
days distant, Colonel Costobell and his wife were staying. Lord
Ventnor, alone of those on board, knew this. Indeed, he accompanied Sir
Arthur Deane largely in order to break off a somewhat trying
entanglement. He smiled complacently