in command. It seemed curious that there were not more passengers on
the tender's deck; but perhaps he and Liane were among the first to
come aboard; after all, they were not to sail before morning, according
to the women. He apprehended a tedious time of waiting before he gained
his berth. He noticed, too, a life ring lettered SYBARITE, and thought
this an odd name for a vessel of commercial utility. Then he found
himself descending a wide companionway to one of the handsomest saloons
he had ever entered, a living room that, aside from its concessions to
marine architecture, might have graced a residence on Park Lane or on
Fifth avenue in the Sixties.

Lanyard stopped short with his hand on the mahogany handrail.

"I say, Liane! haven't we stumbled into the wrong pew?"

"Wrong pew?" The woman subsided gracefully into a cushioned arm-chair,
crossed her knees, and smiled at his perplexity. "But I do not know
what is that 'wrong pew.'"

"I mean to say... this is no tender, and it unquestionably isn't an
Atlantic liner."

"I should hope not. Did I promise you a--what do you say?--tender or
Atlantic liner? But no: I do not think I told you what sort of vessel
we would sail upon for that America. You did not ask."

"True, little sister. But you might have prepared me. This is a private
yacht."

"Are you disappointed?"

"I won't say that..."

"It is the little ship of a dear friend, monsieur, who generously
permits... But patience! very soon you shall know."

To himself Lanyard commented: "I believe it well!" A door had opened in
the after partition, two men had entered. Above a lank, well-poised
body clothed in the white tunic and trousers of a ship's officer, he
recognised the tragicomic mask of the soi-disant Mr. Whitaker Monk. At
his shoulder shone the bland, intelligent countenance of Mr. Phinuit,
who seemed much at home in the blue serge and white flannels of the
average amateur yachtsman.

From this last Lanyard received a good-natured nod, while Monk, with a
great deal of empressement, proceeded directly to Liane Delorme and
bowed low over the hand which she languidly lifted to be saluted.

"My dear friend!" he said in his sonorous voice. "In another hour I
should have begun to grow anxious about you."

"You would have had good reason, monsieur. It is not two hours since
one has escaped death--and that for the second time in a single day--by
the slenderest margin, and thanks solely to this gentleman