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A Woman Intervenes

by Robert Barr · English · Gutenberg #9379 · 546,228 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: A Woman Intervenes

Author: Robert Barr


        
Release date: November 1, 2005 [eBook #9379]
                Most recently updated: March 21, 2014

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A WOMAN INTERVENES ***




Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan and PG
Distributed Proofreaders. This file was produced from
images generously made available by the Canadian Institute
for Historical Microreproductions. HTML version by Al
Haines.










                           A WOMAN INTERVENES

                                   BY

                               ROBERT BARR

AUTHOR OF

'IN THE MIDST OF ALARMS,' 'IN A STEAMER CHAIR,' 'FROM WHOSE BOURNE,'
ETC.



WITH EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS BY HAL HURST



1896




TO

MY FRIEND

HORACE HART




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

'I HAD NO INTENTION OF INSULTING YOU' _Frontispiece_

WENTWORTH SHOWED HER HOW TO TURN IT ROUND

MISS JENNIE ALLOWED HIM TO ADJUST THE WRAPS AROUND HER

'OH, YES! YOU WILL STAY,' CRIED THE OTHER

SHE WALKED ALONE UP AND DOWN THE PROMENADE

SHE SPRANG SUDDENLY TO HER FEET

'YOU HAVE A PRODIGIOUS HEAD FOR BUSINESS'

EDITH LONGWORTH HAD SAT DOWN BESIDE HIM




CHAPTER I.


The managing editor of the _New York Argus_ sat at his desk with a deep
frown on his face, looking out from under his shaggy eyebrows at the
young man who had just thrown a huge fur overcoat on the back of one
chair, while he sat down himself on another.

'I got your telegram,' began the editor. 'Am I to understand from it that
you have failed?'

'Yes, sir,' answered the young man, without the slightest hesitation.

'Completely?'

'Utterly.'

'Didn't you even get a synopsis of the documents?'

'Not a hanged synop.'

The editor's frown grew deeper. The ends of his fingers drummed nervously
on the desk.

'You take failure rather jauntily, it strikes me,' he said at last.

'What's the use of taking it any other way? I have the consciousness of
knowing that I did my best.'

'Um, yes. It's a great consolation, no doubt, but it doesn't count in
the newspaper business. What did you do?'

'I received your telegram at Montreal, and at once left for Burnt
Pine--most outlandish spot on earth. I found that Kenyon and
Wentworth were staying at the only hotel in the place. Tried to worm
out of them what their reports were to be. They were very polite, but
I didn't succeed. Then I tried to bribe them, and they ordered me out
of the room.'

'Perhaps you didn't offer them enough.'

'I offered double what the London Syndicate was to pay them for making
the report, taking their own word for the amount. I couldn't offer more,
because at that point they closed the discussion by ordering me out of
the room. I tried to get the papers that night, on the quiet, out of
Wentworth's valise, but was unfortunately interrupted. The young men
were suspicious, and next morning they left for Ottawa to post the
reports, as I gathered afterwards, to England. I succeeded in getting
hold of the reports, but I couldn't hang on. There are too many police
in Ottawa to suit me.'

'Do you mean to tell me,' said the editor, 'that you actually had the
reports in your hands, and that they were taken from you?'

'Certainly I had; and as to their being taken from me, it was either that
or gaol. They don't mince matters in Canada as they do in the United
States, you know.'

'But I should think a man of your shrewdness would have been able to get
at least a synopsis of the reports before letting them out of his
possession.'

'My dear sir,' said the reporter, rather angry, 'the whole thing covered
I forget how many pages of foolscap paper, and was the most mixed-up
matter I ever saw in my life. I tried--I sat in my room at the hotel, and
did my best to master the details. It was full of technicalities, and I
couldn't make it out. It required a mining expert to get the hang of
their phrases and figures, so I thought the best thing to do was to
telegraph it all straight through to New York. I knew it would cost a lot
of money, but I knew, also, you didn't mind that; and I thought, perhaps,
somebody here could make sense out of what baffled me; besides, I wanted
to get the documents out of my possession just as quickly as possible.'

'Hem!' said the editor. 'You took no notes whatever?'

'No, I did not. I had no time. I knew the moment they missed the
documents they would have the detectives on my track. As it was, I was
arrested when I entered the telegraph-office.'

'Well, it seems to me,' said the managing editor, 'if I had once had the
papers in my hand, I should not have let them go until I had got the gist
of what was in them.'

'Oh, it's all very well for you to say so,' replied the reporter, with
the free and easy manner in which an American newspaper man talks to his
employer; 'but I can tell you, with a Canadian gaol facing a man, it is
hard to decide what is best to do. I couldn't get out of the town for
three hours, and before the end of that time they would have had my
description in the hands of every policeman in the place. They knew well
enough who took the papers, so my only hope lay in getting the thing
telegraphed through; and if that had been accomplished, everything would
have been all right. I would have gone to gaol with pleasure if I had
got the particulars through to New York.'

'Well, what are we to do now?' asked the editor.

'I'm sure I don't know. The two men will be in New York very shortly.
They sail, I understand, on the _Caloric_, which leaves in a week. If you
think you have a reporter who can get the particulars out of these men, I
should be very pleased to see you set him on. I tell you it isn't so easy
to discover what an Englishman doesn't want you to know.'

'Well,' said the editor, 'perhaps that's true. I will think about it. Of
course you did your best, and I appreciate your efforts; but I am sorry
you failed.'

'You are not half so sorry as I am,' said Rivers, as he picked up his big
Canadian fur coat and took his leave.

The editor did think about it. He thought for fully two minutes. Then he
dashed off a note on a sheet of paper, pulled down the little knob that
rang the District Messenger alarm, and when the uniformed boy appeared,
gave him the note, saying:

'Deliver this as quickly as you can.'

The boy disappeared, and the result of his trip was soon apparent in the
arrival of a very natty young woman in the editorial rooms. She was
dressed in a neatly-fitting tailor-made costume, and was a very pretty
girl, who looked about nineteen, but was, in reality, somewhat older. She
had large, appealing blue eyes, with a tender, trustful expression in
them, which made the ordinary man say: 'What a sweet, innocent look that
girl has!' yet, what the young woman didn't know about New York was not
worth knowing. She boasted that she could get State secrets from
dignified members of the Cabinet, and an ordinary Senator or Congressman
she looked upon as her lawful prey. That which had been told her in the
strictest confidence had often become the sensation of the next day in
the paper she represented. She wrote over a _nom de guerre_, and had
tried her hand at nearly everything. She had answered advertisements,
exposed rogues and swindlers, and had gone to a hotel as chambermaid, in
order to write her experiences. She had been arrested and locked up, so
that she might write a three-column account, for the Sunday edition of
the _Argus_, of 'How Women are Treated at Police Headquarters.' The
editor looked upon her as one of the most valuable members of his staff,
and she was paid accordingly.

She came into the room with the self-possessed air of the owner of the
building, took a seat, after nodding to the editor, and said, 'Well?'

'Look here, Jennie,' began that austere individual, 'do you wish to take
a trip to Europe?'

'That depends,' said Jennie; 'this is not just the time of year that
people go to Europe for pleasure, you know.'

'Well, this is not exactly a pleasure trip. The truth of the matter is,
Rivers has been on a job and has bungled it fearfully, besides nearly
getting himself arrested.'

The young woman's eyes twinkled. She liked anything with a spice of
danger in it, and did not object to hear that she was expected to succeed
where a mere masculine reporter had failed.

The editor continued:

'Two young men are going across to England on the _Caloric_. It sails in
a week. I want you to take a ticket for Liverpool by that boat, and
obtain from either of those two men the particulars--the _full_
particulars--of reports they have made on some mining properties in
Canada. Then you must land at Queenstown and cable a complete account to
the _Argus_.'

'Mining isn't much in my line,' said Miss Jennie, with a frown on her
pretty brow. 'What sort of mines were they dealing with--gold, silver,
copper, or what?'

'They are certain mines on the Ottawa River.'

'That's rather indefinite.'

'I know it is. I can't give you much information about the matter. I
don't know myself, to tell the truth, but I know it is vitally important
that we should get a synopsis of what the reports of these young men are
to be. A company, called the London Syndicate, has been formed in
England. This syndicate is to acquire a large number of mines in Canada,
if the accounts given by the present owners are anything like correct.
Two men, Kenyon and Wentworth--the first a mining engineer, and the
second an experienced accountant--have been sent from London to Canada,
one to examine the mines, the other to examine the books of the various
corporations. Whether the mines are bought or not will depend a good deal
on the reports these two men have in their possession. The reports, when
published, will make a big difference, one way or the other, on the Stock
Exchange. I want to have the gist of them before the London Syndicate
sees them. It will be a big thing for the _Argus_ if it is the first in
the field, and I am willing to spend a pile of hard cash to succeed. So,
don't economize on your cable expenses.'

'Very well; have you a book on Canadian mines?'

'I don't know that we have; but there is a book here, "The Mining
Resources of Canada;" will that be of any use?'

'I shall need something of that sort. I want to be a little familiar with
the subject, you know.'

'Quite so,' said the editor; 'I will see what can be got in that line.
You can read it before you start, and on the way over.'

'All right,' said Miss Jennie; 'and am I to take my pick of the two
young men?'

'Certainly,' answered the editor. 'You will see them both, and can easily
make up your mind which will the sooner fall a victim.'

'The _Caloric_ sails in a week, does it?'

'Yes.'

'Then I shall need at least five hundred dollars to get new dresses
with.'

'Good gracious!' cried the editor.

'There is no "good gracious" about it. I'm going to travel as a
millionaire's daughter, and it isn't likely that one or two dresses will
do me all the way over.'

'But you can't get new dresses made in a week,' said the editor.

'Can't I? Well, you just get me the five hundred dollars, and I'll see
about the making.'

The editor jotted the amount down.

'You don't think four hundred dollars would do?' he said.

'No, I don't. And, say, am I to get a trip to Paris after this is over,
or must I come directly back?'

'Oh, I guess we can throw in the trip to Paris,' said the editor.

'What did you say the names of the young men are?--or are they not
young? Probably they are old fogies, if they are in the mining business.'

'No; they are young, they are shrewd, and they are English. So you see
your work is cut out for you. Their names are George Wentworth and
John Kenyon.'

'Oh, Wentworth is my man,' said the young woman breezily. 'John Kenyon! I
know just what sort of a person he is--sombre and taciturn. Sounds too
much like John Bunyan, or John Milton, or names of that sort.'

'Well, I wouldn't be too sure about it until you see them. Better not
make up your mind about the matter.'

'When shall I call for the five hundred dollars?'

'Oh, that you needn't trouble about. The better way is to get your
dresses made, and tell the people to send the bills to our office.'

'Very well,' said the young woman. 'I shall be ready. Don't be frightened
at the bills when they come in. If they come up to a thousand dollars,
remember I told you I would let you off for five hundred dollars.'

The editor looked at her for a moment, and seemed to reflect that
perhaps it was better not to give a young lady unlimited credit in New
York. So he said:

'Wait a bit; I'll write you out the order, and you can take it
downstairs.'

Miss Jennie took the paper when it was offered to her, and disappeared.
When she presented the order in the business office, the cashier raised
his eyebrows as he noticed the amount, and, with a low whistle, said to
himself:

'Five hundred dollars! I wonder what game Jennie Brewster's up to now.'




CHAPTER II.


The last bell had rung. Those who were going ashore had taken their
departure. Crowds of human beings clustered on the pier-head, and at the
large doorways of the warehouse which stood open on the steamer wharf. As
the big ship slowly backed out there was a fluttering of handkerchiefs
from the mass on the pier, and an answering flutter from those who
crowded along the bulwarks of the steamer. The tug slowly pulled the prow
of the vessel round, and at last the engines of the steamship began their
pulsating throbs--throbs that would vibrate night and day until the
steamer reached an older civilization. The crowd on the pier became more
and more indistinct to those on board, and many of the passengers went
below, for the air was bitterly cold, and the boat was forcing its way
down the bay among huge blocks of ice.

Two, at least, of the passengers had taken little interest in the
departure. They were leaving no friends behind them, and were both
setting their faces toward friends at home.

'Let us go down,' said Wentworth to Kenyon, 'and see that we get seats
together at table before all are taken.'

'Very good,' replied his companion, and they descended to the roomy
saloon, where two long tables were already laid with an ostentatious
display of silver, glassware, and cutlery, which made many, who looked on
this wilderness of white linen with something like dismay, hope that the
voyage would be smooth, although, as it was a winter passage, there was
every chance it would not be. The purser and two of his assistants sat
at one of the shorter tables with a plan before them, marking off the
names of passengers who wished to be together, or who wanted some
particular place at any of the tables. The smaller side-tables were still
uncovered because the number of passengers at that season of the year was
comparatively few. As the places were assigned, one of the helpers to the
purser wrote the names of the passengers on small cards, and the other
put the cards on the tables.

One young woman, in a beautifully-fitting travelling gown, which was
evidently of the newest cut and design, stood a little apart from the
general group which surrounded the purser and his assistants. She eagerly
scanned every face, and listened attentively to the names given.
Sometimes a shade of disappointment crossed her brow, as if she expected
some particular person to possess some particular name which that
particular person did not bear. At last her eyes sparkled.

'My name is Wentworth,' said the young man whose turn it was.

'Ah! any favourite place, Mr. Wentworth?' asked the purser blandly, as if
he had known Wentworth all his life.

'No, we don't care where we sit; but my friend Mr. Kenyon and myself
would like places together.'

'Very good; you had better come to my table,' replied the purser.
'Numbers 23 and 24--Mr. Kenyon and Mr. Wentworth.'

The steward took the cards that were given him, and placed them to
correspond with the numbers the purser had named. Then the young woman
moved gracefully along, as if she were interested in the names upon the
table. She looked at Wentworth's name for a moment, and saw in the place
next to his the name of Mr. Brown. She gave a quick, apprehensive glance
around the saloon, and observed the two young men who had arranged for
their seats at table now walking leisurely toward the companion-way. She
took the card with the name of Mr. Brown upon it, and slipped upon the
table another on which were written the words 'Miss Jennie Brewster.' Mr.
Brown's card she placed on the spot from which she had taken her own.

'I hope Mr. Brown is not particular which place he occupies,' said Jennie
to herself; 'but at any rate I shall see that I am early for dinner, and
I'm sure Mr. Brown, whoever he is, will not be so ungallant as to insist
on having this place if he knows his card was here.'

Subsequent events proved her surmise regarding Mr. Brown's indifference
to be perfectly well founded. That young man searched for his card, found
it, and sat down on the chair opposite the young woman, who already
occupied her chair, and was, in fact, the first one at table. Seeing
there would be no unseemly dispute about places, she began to plan in her
own mind how she would first attract the attention of Mr. Wentworth.
While thinking how best to approach her victim, Jennie heard his voice.

'Here you are, Kenyon; here are our places.'

'Which is mine?' said the voice of Kenyon.

'It doesn't matter,' answered Wentworth, and then a thrill of fear went
through the gentle heart of Miss Jennie Brewster. She had not thought of
the young man not caring which seat he occupied, and she dreaded the
possibility of finding herself next to Kenyon rather than Wentworth. Her
first estimate of the characters of the two men seemed to be correct. She
always thought of Kenyon as Bunyan, and she felt certain that Wentworth
would be the easier man of the two to influence. The next moment her
fears were allayed, for Kenyon, giving a rapid glance at the handsome
young woman, deliberately chose the seat farthest from her, and
Wentworth, with 'I beg your pardon,' slipped in and sat down on the chair
beside her.

'Now,' thought Jennie, with a sigh of relief, 'our positions are fixed
for the meals of the voyage.' She had made her plans for beginning an
acquaintance with the young man, but they were rendered unnecessary by
the polite Mr. Wentworth handing her the bill of fare.

'Oh, thank you,' said the girl, in a low voice, which was so musical that
Wentworth glanced at her a second time and saw how sweet and pretty and
innocent she was.

'I'm in luck,' said the unfortunate young man to himself. Then he
remarked aloud: 'We have not many ladies with us this voyage.'

'No,' replied Miss Brewster; 'I suppose nobody crosses at this time of
the year unless compelled to.'

'I can answer for two passengers that such is the case.'

'Do you mean yourself as one?'

'Yes, myself and my friend.'

'How pleasant it must be,' said Miss Brewster, 'to travel with a friend!
Then one is not lonely. I, unfortunately, am travelling alone.'

'I fancy,' said the gallant Wentworth, 'that if you are lonely while on
board ship, it will be entirely your own fault.'

Miss Brewster laughed a silvery little laugh.

'I don't know about that,' she said. 'I am going to that Mecca of all
Americans--Paris. My father is to meet me there, and we are then going on
to the Riviera together.'

'Ah, that will be very pleasant,' said Wentworth. 'The Riviera at this
season is certainly a place to be desired.'

'So I have heard,' she replied.

'Have you not been across before?'

'No, this is my first trip. I suppose you have crossed many times?'

'Oh no,' answered the Englishman; 'this is only my second voyage, my
first having been the one that took me to America.'

'Ah, then you are not an American,' returned Miss Brewster, with
apparent surprise.

She imagined that a man is generally flattered when a mistake of this
kind is made. No matter how proud he may be of his country, he is pleased
to learn that there is no provincialism about him which, as the Americans
say, 'gives him away.'

'I think,' said Wentworth, 'as a general thing, I am not taken for
anything but what I am--an Englishman.'

'I have met so few Englishmen,' said the guileless young woman, 'that
really I should not be expected to know.'

'I understand it is a common delusion among Americans that every
Englishman drops his "h's," and is to be detected in that way.'

Jennie laughed again, and George Wentworth thought it one of the
prettiest laughs he had ever heard.

Poor Kenyon was rather neglected by his friend during the dinner. He felt
a little gloomy while the courses went on, and wished he had an evening
paper. Meanwhile, Wentworth and the handsome girl beside him got on very
well together. At the end of the dinner she seemed to have some
difficulty in getting up from her chair, and Wentworth showed her how to
turn it round, leaving her free to rise. She thanked him prettily.

'I am going on deck,' she said, turning to go; 'I am so anxious to get my
first glimpse of the ocean at night from the deck of a steamer.'

'I hope you will let me accompany you,' returned young Wentworth. 'The
decks are rather slippery, and even when the boat is not rolling it
isn't quite safe for a lady unused to the motion of a ship to walk alone
in the dark.'

'Oh, thank you very much,' replied Miss Brewster, with effusion. 'It
is kind of you, I am sure; and if you promise not to let me rob you
of the pleasure of your after-dinner cigar, I shall be most happy to
have you accompany me. I will meet you at the top of the stairway in
five minutes.'

'You are getting on,' said Kenyon, as the young woman disappeared.

'What's the use of being on board ship,' said Wentworth, 'If you don't
take advantage of the opportunity for making shipboard acquaintances?
There is an unconventionality about life on a steamer that is not without
its charm, as perhaps you will find out before the voyage is over, John.'

'You are merely trying to ease your conscience because of your heartless
desertion of me.'

George Wentworth had waited at the top of the companion-way a little more
than five minutes when Miss Brewster appeared, wrapped in a cloak edged
with fur, which lent an additional charm to her complexion, set off as it
was by a jaunty steamer cap. They stepped out on the deck, and found it
not at all so dark as they had expected. Little globes of electric light
were placed at regular intervals on the walls of the deck building.
Overhead was stretched a sort of canvas roof, against which the sleety
rain pattered. One of the sailors, with a rubber mop, was pushing into
the gutter by the side of the ship the moisture from the deck. All around
the boat the night was as black as ink, except here and there where the
white curl of a wave showed luminous for a moment in the darkness.

Miss Brewster insisted that Wentworth should light his cigar, which,
after some persuasion, he did. Then he tucked her hand snugly under his
arm, and she adjusted her step to suit his. They had the promenade all to
themselves. The rainy winter night was not so inviting to most of the
passengers as the comfortable rooms below. Kenyon, however, and one or
two others came up, and sat on the steamer chairs that were tied to the
brass rod which ran along the deckhouse wall. He saw the glow of
Wentworth's cigar as the couple turned at the farther end of the walk,
and when they passed him he heard a low murmur of conversation, and
caught now and then a snatch of silvery laughter. It was not because
Wentworth had deserted him that Kenyon felt so uncomfortable and
depressed. He could not tell just what it was, but there had settled on
his mind a strange, uneasy foreboding. After a time he went down into the
saloon and tried to read, but could not, and so wandered along the
seemingly endless narrow passage to his room (which was Wentworth's as
well), and, in nautical phrase, 'turned in.' It was late when his
companion came.

'Asleep, Kenyon?' asked the latter.

'No,' was the answer.

'By George! John, she is one of the most charming girls I ever met.
Wonderfully clever, too; makes a man feel like a fool beside her. She has
read nearly everything. Has opinions on all our authors, a great many of
whom I've never heard of. I wish, for your sake, John, she had a sister
on board.'

'Thanks, old man; awfully good of you, I'm sure,' said Kenyon. 'Don't
you think it's about time to stop raving, get into your bunk, and turn
out that confounded light?'

'All right, growler, I will.'

Meanwhile, in her own state-room, Miss Jennie Brewster was looking at her
reflection in the glass. As she shook out her long hair until it rippled
down her back, she smiled sweetly, and said to herself:

'Poor Mr. Wentworth! Only the first night out, and he told me his name
was George.'




CHAPTER III.


The second day out was a pleasant surprise for all on board who had made
up their minds to a disagreeable winter passage. The air was clear, the
sky blue as if it were spring-time, instead of midwinter. They were in
the Gulf Stream. The sun shone brightly and the temperature was mild.
Nevertheless, it was an uncomfortable day for those who were poor
sailors. Although there did not seem, to the casual observer, to be much
of a sea running, the ship rolled atrociously. Those who had made heroic
resolutions on the subject were sitting in silent misery in their
deck-chairs, which had been lashed to firm stanchions. Few were walking
the clean bright deck, because walking that morning was a gymnastic feat.
Three or four who evidently wished to show they had crossed before, and
knew all about it, managed to make their way along the deck. Those
recumbent in the steamer-chairs watched with lazy interest the
pedestrians who now and then stood still, leaning apparently far out of
the perpendicular, as the deck inclined downward. Sometimes the
pedestrian's feet slipped, and he shot swiftly down the incline. Such an
incident was invariably welcomed by those who sat. Even the invalids
smiled wanly.

Kenyon reclined in his deck-chair with his eyes fixed on the blue sky.
His mind was at rest about the syndicate report now that it had been
mailed to London. His thoughts wandered to his own affairs, and he
wondered whether he would make money out of the option he had acquired at
Ottawa. He was not an optimistic man, and he doubted.

After their work for the London Syndicate was finished, the young men had
done a little business on their own account. They visited together a
mica-mine that was barely paying expenses, and which the proprietors were
anxious to sell. The mine was owned by the Austrian Mining Company,
whose agent, Von Brent, was interviewed by Kenyon in Ottawa. The young
men obtained an option on this mine for three months from Von Brent.
Kenyon's educated eye had told him that the white mineral they were
placing on the dump at the mouth of the mine was even more valuable than
the mica for which they were mining.

Kenyon was scrupulously honest--a quality somewhat at a discount in the
mining business--and it seemed to him hardly the fair thing that he
should take advantage of the ignorance of Von Brent regarding the mineral
on the dump. Wentworth had some trouble in overcoming his friend's
scruples. He claimed that knowledge always had to be paid for, in law,
medicine, or mineralogy, and therefore that they were perfectly justified
in profiting by their superior wisdom. So it came about that the young
men took to England with them a three months' option on the mine.

Wentworth had been walking about all morning like a lost spirit
apparently seeking what was not. 'It can't be,' he said to himself. No;
the thought was too horrible, and he dismissed it from his mind, merely
conjecturing that perhaps she was not an early riser, which was indeed
the case. No one who works on a morning newspaper ever takes advantage of
the lark's example.

'Well, Kenyon,' said Wentworth 'you look as if you were writing a poem,
or doing something that required deep mental agony.'

'The writing of poems, my dear Wentworth, I leave to you. I am doing
something infinitely more practical--something that you ought to be at.
I am thinking what we are to do with our mica-mine when we get it over
to London.'

'Oh, "sufficient for the day is the evil thereof,"' cried Wentworth
jauntily; 'besides, half an hour's thinking by a solid-brained fellow
like you is worth a whole voyage of my deepest meditation.'

'She hasn't appeared yet?' said Kenyon.

'No, dear boy; no, she has _not_. You see, I make no pretence with you as
other less ingenuous men might. No, she has _not_ appeared, and she has
not breakfasted.'

'Perhaps----' began Kenyon.

'No, no!' cried Wentworth; 'I'll have no "perhaps." I thought of that, but
I instantly dismissed the idea. She's too good a sailor.'

'It requires a very good sailor to stand this sort of thing. It looks so
unnecessary, too. I wonder what the ship is rolling about?'

'I can't tell, but she seems to be rolling about half over. I say,
Kenyon, old fellow, I feel horrible pangs of conscience about
deserting you in this way, and so early in the voyage. I didn't do it
last time, did I?'

'You were a model travelling companion on the last voyage,' returned
Kenyon.

'I don't wish to make impertinent suggestions, my boy, but allow me to
tell you that there are some other very nice girls on board.'

'You are not so bad as I feared, then,' replied Kenyon, 'or you wouldn't
admit that. I thought you had eyes for no one but Miss--Miss--I really
didn't catch her name.'

'I don't mind telling you confidentially, Kenyon, that her name is
Jennie.'

'Dear me!' cried Kenyon, 'has it got so far as that? Doesn't it strike
you, Wentworth, that you are somewhat in a hurry? It seems decidedly
more American than English. Englishmen are apt to weigh matters a
little more.'

'There is no necessity for weighing, my boy. I don't see any harm in
making the acquaintance of a pretty girl when you have a long voyage
before you.'

'Well, I wouldn't let it grow too serious, if I were you.'

'There isn't the slightest danger of seriousness about the affair. On
shore the young lady wouldn't cast a second look at me. She is the
daughter of a millionaire. Her father is in Paris, and they are going on
to the Riviera in a few weeks.'

'All the more reason,' said Kenyon, 'that you shouldn't let this go too
far. Be on your guard, my boy. I've heard it said that American girls
have the delightful little practice of leading a man on until it comes to
a certain point, and then arching their pretty eyebrows, looking
astonished, and forgetting all about him afterwards. You had better wait
until we make our fortunes on this mica-mine, and then, perhaps, your
fair millionairess may listen to you.'

'John,' cried Wentworth, 'you are the most cold-blooded man I know of. I
never noticed it so particularly before, but it seems to me that years
and years of acquaintance with minerals of all kinds, hard and flinty,
transform a man. Be careful that you don't become like the minerals you
work among.'

'Well, I don't know anything that has less tendency to soften a man than
long columns of figures. I think the figures you work at are quite as
demoralizing as the minerals I have spent my life with.'

'Perhaps you are right, but a girl would have to be thrown into your
arms before you would admit that such a thing as a charming young lady
existed.'

'If I make all the money I hope to make out of the mica-mine, I expect
the young ladies will not be thrown into my arms, but at my head. Money
goes a long way toward reconciling a girl to marriage.'

'It certainly goes a long way toward reconciling her mother to the
marriage. I don't believe,' said Wentworth slowly, 'that my--that Miss
Brewster ever thinks about money.'

'She probably doesn't need to, but no doubt there is someone who does the
thinking for her. If her father is a millionaire, and has, like many
Americans, made his own money, you may depend upon it he will do the
thinking for her; and if Miss Brewster should prove to be thoughtless in
the matter, the old gentleman will very speedily bring you both to your
senses. It would be different if you had a title.'

'I haven't any,' replied Wentworth, 'except the title George Wentworth,
accountant, with an address in the City and rooms in the suburbs.'

'Precisely; if you were Lord George Wentworth, or even Sir George, or
Baron Wentworth of something or other, you might have a chance; as it is,
the title of accountant would not go far with an American millionaire, or
his daughter either.'

'You are a cold, calculating wretch.'

'Nothing of the sort. I merely have my senses about me, and you haven't
at this particular moment. You wouldn't think of trusting a book-keeper's
figures without seeing his vouchers. Well, my boy, you haven't the
vouchers--at least, not yet, so that is why I ask you to give your
attention to what we are going to do with our mine; and if you take my
advice you will not think seriously about American millionaires or their
daughters.'

George Wentworth jumped to his feet, the ship gave a lurch at that
particular moment, and he no sooner found his feet than he nearly lost
them again; however, he was an expert at balancing himself as well as his
accounts, and though for the moment his attention was occupied in keeping
his equilibrium, he looked down on his companion, still placidly
reclining in his chair, with a smile on his face.

'Kenyon,' he said, 'I am going to look for another girl.'

'Is one not enough for you?'

'No, I want two--one for myself, and one for you. No man can sympathize
with another unless he is in the same position himself. John, I want
sympathy, and I'm not getting it.'

'What you need more urgently,' said Kenyon calmly, 'is common-sense, and
that I am trying to supply.'

'You are doing your duty in that direction; but a man doesn't live by
common-sense alone. There comes a time when common-sense is a drug in
the market. I don't say it has come to me yet, but I'm resolved to get
you into a more sympathetic mood, so I am going to find a suitable young
lady for you.'

'More probably you are going to look for your own,' answered Kenyon, as
his friend walked off, and, disappearing round the corner, crossed to
the other side of the ship.

Kenyon did not turn again to his figures when his companion left him. He
mused over the curiously rapid turn of circumstances. He hoped Wentworth
would not take it too seriously, for he felt that, somehow or other, Miss
Brewster was just the sort of girl to throw him over after she had whiled
away a tedious voyage. Of course he could not say this to his friend, who
evidently admired Miss Brewster, but he had said as much as he could to
put Wentworth on his guard.

'Now,' said Kenyon to himself, 'if she had been a girl like _that_, I
wouldn't have minded.' The girl 'like _that_' was a young woman who for
half an hour had been walking the deck alone with marvellous skill. She
was not so handsome as the American girl, but she had a better
complexion, and there was a colour in her cheek which seemed to suggest
England. Her dress was not quite so smart nor so well-fitting as that of
the American girl; but, nevertheless, she was warmly and sensibly clad,
and a brown Tam o' Shanter covered her fair head. The tips of her hands
were in the pockets of her short blue-cloth jacket; and she walked the
deck with a firm, reliant tread that aroused the admiration of John
Kenyon. 'If she were only a girl like _that_,' he repeated to himself, 'I
wouldn't mind. There's something fresh and genuine about her. She makes
me think of the breezy English downs.'

As she walked back and forward, one or two young men seemingly made an
attempt to become acquainted with her, but it was evident to Kenyon that
the young woman had made it plain to them, politely enough, that she
preferred walking alone, and they raised their sea-caps and left her.

'She doesn't pick up the first man who comes,' he mused.

The ship was beginning to roll more and more, and yet the day was
beautiful and the sea seemingly calm. Most of the promenaders had left
the deck. Two or three of them had maintained their equilibrium with a
gratifying success which engendered the pride that goeth before a fall,
but the moment came at last when their feet slipped and they had found
themselves thrown against the bulwark of the steamer. Then they had
laughed a little in a crestfallen manner, picked themselves up, and
promenaded the deck no more. Many of those who were lying in the
steamer-chairs gave up the struggle and went down to their cabins. There
was a momentary excitement as one chair broke from its fastenings and
slid down with a crash against the bulwarks. The occupant was picked up
in a hysterical condition and taken below. The deck steward tied the
chair more firmly, so that the accident would not happen again. The young
English girl was opposite John Kenyon when this disaster took place, and
her attention being diverted by fear for the safety of the occupant of
the sliding chair, her care for herself was withdrawn at the very moment
when it was most needed. The succeeding lurch which the ship gave to the
other side was the most tremendous of the day. The deck rose until the
girl leaning outward could almost touch it with her hand, then, in spite
of herself, she slipped with the rapidity of lightning against the chair
John Kenyon occupied, and that tripping her up, flung her upon him with
an unexpectedness that would have taken his breath away if the sudden
landing of a plump young woman upon him had not accomplished the same
thing. The fragile deck-chair gave way with a crash, and it would be hard
to say which was the more discomfited by the sudden catastrophe, John
Kenyon or the girl.

'I hope you are not hurt,' he managed to stammer.

'Don't think about me!' she cried. 'I have broken your chair, and--and----'

'The chair doesn't matter,' cried Kenyon. 'It was a flimsy structure at
best. I am not hurt, if that is what you mean--and you mustn't mind it.'

Then there came to his recollection the sentence of George Wentworth: 'A
girl will have to be thrown into your arms before you will admit that
such a thing as a charming young woman exists.'




CHAPTER IV.


Edith Longworth could hardly be said to be a typical representative of
the English girl. She had the English girl's education, but not her
training. She had lost her mother in early life, which makes a great
difference in a girl's bringing up, however wealthy her father may be;
and Edith's father was wealthy, there was no doubt of that. If you asked
any City man about the standing of John Longworth, you would learn that
the 'house' was well thought of. People said he was lucky, but old John
Longworth asserted that there was no such thing as luck in business--in
which statement he was very likely incorrect. He had large investments in
almost every quarter of the globe. When he went into any enterprise, he
went into it thoroughly. Men talk about the inadvisability of putting all
one's eggs into one basket, but John Longworth was a believer in doing
that very thing--and in watching the basket. Not that he had all his eggs
in one basket, or even in one kind of basket; but when John Longworth was
satisfied with the particular variety of basket presented to him, he put
a large number of eggs in it. When anything was offered for
investment--whether it was a mine or a brewery or a railway--John
Longworth took an expert's opinion upon it, and then the chances were
that he would disregard the advice given. He was in the habit of going
personally to see what had been offered to him. If the enterprise were
big enough, he thought little of taking a voyage to the other end of the
world for the sole purpose of looking the investment over. It was true
that in many cases he knew nothing whatever of the business he went to
examine, but that did not matter; he liked to have a personal inspection
where a large amount of his money was to be placed. Investment seemed to
be a sort of intuition with him. Often, when the experts' opinions were
unanimously in favour of the project, and when everything appeared to be
perfectly safe, Longworth would pay a personal visit to the business
offered for sale, and come to a sudden conclusion not to have anything to
do with it. He would give no reasons to his colleagues for his change of
front; he simply refused to entertain the proposal any further, and
withdrew. Several instances of this kind had occurred. Sometimes a large
and profitable business, held out in the prospectus to be exceedingly
desirable, had come to nothing, and when the company was wound up,
people remembered what Longworth had said about it. So there came to be a
certain superstitious feeling among those who knew him, that, if old Mr.
Longworth was in a thing, the thing was safe, and if a company promoter
managed to get his name on the prospectus, his project was almost certain
to succeed.

       *       *       *       *       *

When Edith Longworth was pronounced finished so far as education was
concerned, she became more and more the companion of her father, and he
often jokingly referred to her as his man of business. She went with him
on his long journeys, and so had been several times to America, once to
the Cape, and one long voyage, with Australia as the objective point, had
taken her completely round the world. She inherited much of her father's
shrewdness, and there is no doubt that, if Edith Longworth had been cast
upon her own resources, she would have become an excellent woman of
business. She knew exactly the extent of her father's investments, and
she was his confidante in a way that few women are with their male
relatives. The old man had a great faith in Edith's opinion, although he
rarely acknowledged it. Having been together so much on such long trips,
they naturally became, in a way, boon companions. Thus, Edith's education
was very unlike that of the ordinary English girl, and this particular
training caused her to develop into a different kind of woman than she
might have been had her mother lived.

Perfect confidence existed between father and daughter, and only lately
had there come a shadow upon their relations, about which neither ever
spoke to the other since their first conversation on the subject.

Edith had said, with perhaps more than her usual outspokenness, that she
had no thought whatever of marriage, and least of all had her thoughts
turned toward the man her father seemed to have chosen. In answer to
this, her father had said nothing, but Edith knew him too well to believe
that he had changed his mind about the matter. The fact that he had
invited her cousin to join them on this particular journey showed her
that he evidently believed all that was necessary was to throw them more
together than had been the case previously; and, although Edith was
silent, she thought her father had not the same shrewdness in these
matters that he showed in the purchasing of a growing business. Edith had
been perfectly civil to the young man--as she would have been to
anyone--but he saw that she preferred her own company to his; and so,
much to the disgust of Mr. Longworth, he spent most of his time at cards
in the smoking-room, whereas, according to the elder gentleman's opinion,
he should have been promenading the deck with his cousin.

William Longworth, the cousin, was inclined to be a trifle put out, for
he looked upon himself as quite an eligible person, one whom any girl in
her senses would be glad to look forward to as a possible husband. He
made no pretence of being madly in love with Edith, but he thought the
marriage would be an admirable thing all round. She was a nice girl, he
said to himself, and his uncle's money was well worth thinking about. In
fact, he was becoming desirous that the marriage should take place; but,
as there was no one upon whom he could look as a rival, he had the field
to himself. He would therefore show Miss Edith that he was by no means
entirely dependent for his happiness upon her company; and this he
proceeded to do by spending his time in the smoking-room, and playing
cards with his fellow-passengers. It was quite evident to anyone who saw
Edith, that, if this suited him, it certainly suited her; so they rarely
met on shipboard except at table, where Edith's place was between her
father and her cousin. Miss Longworth and her cousin had had one brief
conversation on the subject of marriage. He spoke of it rather jauntily,
as being quite a good arrangement, but she said very shortly that she had
no desire to change her name.

'You don't need to,' said Cousin William; 'my name is Longworth, and so
is yours.'

'It is not a subject for a joke,' she answered.

'I am not joking, my dear Edith. I am merely telling you what everybody
knows to be true. You surely don't deny that my name is Longworth?'

'I don't mean to deny or affirm anything in relation to the matter,'
replied the young woman, 'and you will oblige me very much if you will
never recur to this subject again.'

And so the young man betook himself once more to the smoking-room.

On this trip Edith had seen a good deal of American society. People over
there had made it very pleasant for her, and, although the weather was
somewhat trying, she had greatly enjoyed the sleigh-rides and the
different festivities which winter brings to the citizen of Northern
America. Her father and her cousin had gone to America to see numerous
breweries that were situated in different parts of the country, and
which it was proposed to combine into one large company. They had made a
Western city their headquarters, and while Edith was enjoying herself
with her newly-found friends, the two men had visited the breweries in
different sections of the country--all, however, near the city where
Edith was staying. The breweries seemed to be in a very prosperous
condition, although the young man declared the beer they brewed was the
vilest he had ever tasted, and he said he wouldn't like to have anything
to do with the production of it, even if it did turn in money. His uncle
had not tried the beer, but confined himself solely to the good old
bottled English ale, which had increased in price, if not in excellence,
by its transportation. But there was something about the combination
that did not please him; and, from the few words he dropped on the
subject, his nephew saw that Longworth was not going to be a member of
the big Beer Syndicate. The intention had been to take a trip to Canada,
and Edith had some hopes of seeing the city of Montreal in its winter
dress; but that visit had been abandoned, as so much time had been
consumed in the Western States. So they began their homeward voyage,
with the elder Longworth sitting a good deal in his deck-chair, and
young Longworth spending much of his time in the smoking-room, while
Edith walked the deck alone. And this was the lady whom Fate threw into
the arms of John Kenyon.




CHAPTER V.


Steamer friendships ripen quickly. It is true that, as a general thing,
they perish with equal suddenness. The moment a man sets his foot on
solid land the glamour of the sea seems to leave him, and the friend to
whom he was ready to swear eternal fealty while treading the deck, is
speedily forgotten on shore. Edith Longworth gave no thought to the
subject of the innocent nature of steamer friendships when she reviewed
in her own mind her pleasant walk along the deck with Kenyon. She had met
many interesting people during her numerous voyages, but they had all
proved to be steamer acquaintances, whose names she had now considerable
difficulty in remembering. Perhaps she would not have given a second
thought to Mr. Kenyon that night if it had not been for some
ill-considered remarks her cousin saw fit to make at the dinner-table.

'Who was that fellow you were walking with today?' young Longworth asked.

Edith smiled upon him pleasantly, and answered:

'Mr. Kenyon you mean, I suppose?'

'Oh, you know his name, do you?' he answered gruffly.

'Certainly,' she replied; 'I would not walk with a gentleman whose name I
did not know.'

'Really?' sneered her cousin. 'And pray were you introduced to him?'

'I do not think,' answered Edith quietly, 'any person has a right to ask
me that question except my father. He has not asked it, and, as you have,
I will merely answer that I _was_ introduced to Mr. Kenyon.'

'I did not know you had any mutual acquaintance on board who could make
you known to each other.'

'Well, the ceremony was a little informal. We were introduced by our
mutual friend, old Father Neptune. Father Neptune, being, as you know, a
little boisterous this morning, took the liberty of flinging me upon Mr.
Kenyon. I weigh something more than a feather, and the result
was--although Mr. Kenyon was good enough to say he was uninjured--that
the chair on which he sat had not the same consideration for my feelings,
and it went down with a crash. I thought Mr. Kenyon should take my chair
in exchange for the one I had the misfortune to break, but Mr. Kenyon
thought otherwise. He said he was a mining engineer, and that he could
not claim to be a very good one if he found any difficulty in mending a
deck-chair. It seems he succeeded in doing so, and that is the whole
history of my introduction to, and my intercourse with, Mr. Kenyon,
Mining Engineer.'

'Most interesting and romantic,' replied the young man; 'and do you think
that your father approves of your picking up indiscriminate acquaintances
in this way?'

Edith, flushing a little at this, said:

'I would not willingly do what my father disapproved of;' then in a lower
voice she added: 'except, perhaps, one thing.'

Her father, who had caught snatches of the conversation, now leaned
across towards his nephew, and said warningly:

'I think Edith is quite capable of judging for herself. This is my
seventh voyage with her, and I have always found such to be the case.
This happens to be your first, and so, were I you, I would not pursue the
subject further.'

The young man was silent, and Edith gave her father a grateful glance.
Thus it was that, while she might not have given a thought to Kenyon, the
remarks which her cousin had made, brought to her mind, when she was
alone, the two young men, and the contrast between them was not at all to
the advantage of her cousin.

The scrubbing-brushes on the deck above him woke Kenyon early next
morning. For a few moments after getting on deck he thought he had the
ship to himself. One side of the deck was clean and wet; on the other
side the men were slowly moving the scrubbing-brushes backward and
forward, with a drowsy swish-swish. As he walked up the deck, he saw
there was one passenger who had been earlier than himself.

Edith Longworth turned round as she heard his step, and her face
brightened into a smile when she saw who it was.

Kenyon gravely raised his steamer cap and bade her 'Good-morning.'

'You are an early riser, Mr. Kenyon.'

'Not so early as you are, I see.'

'I think I am an exceptional passenger in that way,' replied the girl. 'I
always enjoy the early morning at sea. I like to get as far forward on
the steamer as possible, so that there is nothing between me and the
boundless anywhere. Then it seems as if the world belongs to myself, with
nobody else in it.'

'Isn't that a rather selfish view?' put in Kenyon.

'Oh, I don't think so. There is certainly nothing selfish in my
enjoyment of it; but, you know, there are times when one wishes to be
alone, and to forget everybody.'

'I hope I have not stumbled upon one of those times.'

'Oh, not at all, Mr. Kenyon,' replied his companion, laughing. 'There
was nothing personal in the remark. If I wished to be alone, I would
have no hesitation in walking off. I am not given to hinting; I speak
plainly--some of my friends think a little too plainly. Have you ever
been on the Pacific Ocean?'

'Never.'

'Ah, there the mornings are delicious. It is very beautiful here now, but
in summer on the Pacific some of the mornings are so calm and peaceful
and fresh, that it would seem as if the world had been newly made.'

'You have travelled a great deal, Miss Longworth. I envy you.'

'I often think I am a person to be envied, but there may come a shipwreck
one day, and then I shall not be in so enviable a position.'

'I sincerely hope you may never have such an experience.'

'Have you ever been shipwrecked, Mr. Kenyon?'

'Oh no; my travelling experiences are very limited. But to read of a
shipwreck is bad enough.'

'We have had a most delightful voyage so far. Quite like summer. One can
scarcely believe that we left America in the depth of winter, with snow
everywhere and the thermometer ever so far below zero. Have you mended
your deck-chair yet, sufficiently well to trust yourself upon it again?'

'Oh!' said Kenyon, with a laugh, 'you really must not make fun of my
amateur carpentering like that. As I told you, I am a mining engineer,
and if I cannot mend a deck-chair, what would you expect me to do with a
mine?'

'Have you had much to do with mines?' asked the young woman.

'I am just beginning,' replied Kenyon; 'this, in fact, is one of my first
commissions. I have been sent with my friend Wentworth to examine certain
mines on the Ottawa River.'

'The Ottawa River!' cried Edith. 'Are you one of those who were sent out
by the London Syndicate?'

'Yes,' answered Kenyon with astonishment. 'What do you know about it?'

'Oh, I know everything about it. Everything, except what the mining
expert's report is to be, and that information, I suppose, you have; so,
between the two of us, we know a great deal about the fortunes of the
London Syndicate.'

'Really! I am astonished to meet a young lady who knows anything about
the matter. I understood it was rather a secret combination up to the
present.'

'Ah! but, you see, I am one of the syndicate.'

'You!'

'Certainly,' answered Edith Longworth, laughing. 'At least, my father is,
and that is the same thing, or almost the same thing. We intended to go
to Canada ourselves, and I was very much disappointed at not going. I
understand that the sleighing, and the snowshoeing, and the tobogganing
are something wonderful.'

'I saw very little of the social side of life in the district, my whole
time being employed at the mines; but even in the mining village where we
stayed, they had a snowshoe club, and a very good toboggan slide--so
good, in fact, that, having gone down once, I never ventured to risk my
life on it again.'

'If my father knew you were on board, he would be anxious to meet you.
Doubtless you know the London Syndicate will be a very large company.'

'Yes, I am aware of that.'

'And you know that a great deal is going to depend upon your report?'

'I suppose that is so, and I hope the syndicate will find my report at
least an honest and thorough one.'

'Is the colleague who was with you also on board?'

'Yes, he is here.'

'He, then, was the accountant who was sent out?'

'Yes, and he is a man who does his business very thoroughly, and I think
the syndicate will be satisfied with his work.'

'And do you not think they will be satisfied with yours also? I am sure
you did your work conscientiously.'

Kenyon almost blushed as the young woman made this remark, but she looked
intently at him, and he saw that her thoughts were not on him, but on the
large interests he represented.

'Were you favourably impressed with the Ottawa as a mining region?' she
asked.

'Very much so,' he answered, and, anxious to turn the conversation away
from his own report, he said: 'I was so much impressed with it that I
secured the option of a mine there for myself.'

'Oh! do you intend to buy one of the mines there?'

Kenyon laughed.

'No, I am no capitalist seeking investment for my money, but I saw that
the mine contained possibilities of producing a great deal of money for
those who possess it. It is very much more valuable, in my opinion, than
the owners themselves suspect; so I secured an option upon it for three
months, and hope when I reach England to form a company to take it up.'

'Well, I am sure,' said the young lady, 'if you are confident that the
mine is a good one, you could see no one who would help you more in that
way than my father. He has been looking at a brewery business he thought
of investing in, but which he has concluded to have nothing to do with,
so he will be anxious to find something reliable in its place. How much
would be required for the purchase of the mine you mention?'

'I was thinking of asking fifty thousand pounds for it,' said Kenyon,
flushing, as he thought of his own temerity in more than doubling the
price of the mine.

Wentworth and he had estimated the probable value of the mine, and had
concluded that even selling it at that price--which would give them
thirty thousand pounds to divide between them--they were selling a mine
that was really worth very much more, and would soon pay tremendous
dividends on the fifty thousand pounds. He expected the young woman to
be impressed by the amount, and was, therefore, very much surprised
when she said:

'Fifty thousand pounds! Is that all? Then I am afraid my father would
have nothing to do with it. He only deals with large businesses, and a
company with a capitalization of fifty thousand pounds I am sure he would
not look at.'

'You talk of fifty thousand pounds,' said Kenyon, 'as if it were a mere
trifle. To me it seems an immense fortune. I only wish I had it, or half
of it.'

'You are not rich, then?' said the girl, with apparent interest.

'No,' replied the young man. 'Far otherwise.'

At that moment the elder Mr. Longworth appeared in the door of the
companion-way, and looked up and down the deck.

'Oh, here you are,' he said, as his daughter sprang from her chair.

'Father,' she cried, 'let me introduce to you Mr. Kenyon, who is the
mining expert sent out by our syndicate to look at the Ottawa mines.'

'I am pleased to meet you,' said the elder gentleman.

The capitalist sat down beside the mining engineer, and began, somewhat
to Kenyon's embarrassment, to talk of the London Syndicate.




CHAPTER VI.


A few mornings later Wentworth worked his way, with much balancing and
grasping of stanchions, along the deck, for the ship rolled fearfully,
but the person he sought was nowhere visible. He thought he would go into
the smoking-room, but changed his mind at the door, and turned down the
companion-way to the main saloon. The tables had been cleared of the
breakfast belongings, but on one of the small tables a white cloth had
been laid, and at this spot of purity in the general desert of red plush
sat Miss Brewster, who was complacently ordering what she wanted from a
steward, who did not seem at all pleased in serving one who had
disregarded the breakfast-hour, to the disarrangement of all saloon
rules. The chief steward stood by a door and looked disapprovingly at the
tardy guest. It was almost time to lay the tables for lunch, and the
young woman was as calmly ordering her breakfast as if she had been the
first person at table.

She looked up brightly at Wentworth, and smiled as he approached her.

'I suppose,' she began, 'I'm dreadfully late, and the steward looks as if
he would like to scold me. How awfully the ship is rolling! Is there a
storm?'

'No. She seems to be doing this sort of thing for amusement. Wants to
make it interesting for the unfortunate passengers who are not good
sailors, I suppose. She's doing it, too. There's scarcely anyone on
deck.'

'Dear me! I thought we were having a dreadful storm. Is it raining?'

'No. It's a beautiful sunshiny day; without much wind either, in spite of
all this row.'

'I suppose you have had your breakfast long ago?'

'So long since that I am beginning to look forward with pleasant
anticipation to lunch.'

'Oh dear! I had no idea I was so late as that. Perhaps _you_ had
better scold me. Somebody ought to do it, and the steward seems a
little afraid.'

'You over-estimate my courage. I am a little afraid, too.'

'Then you _do_ think I deserve it?'

'I didn't say that, nor do I think it. I confess, however, that up to
this moment I felt just a trifle lonely.'

'Just a trifle! Well, that _is_ flattery. How nicely you English do turn
a compliment! Just a trifle!'

'I believe, as a race, we do not venture much into compliment making at
all. We leave that for the polite foreigner. He would say what I tried
to say a great deal better than I did, of course, but he would not mean
half so much.'

'Oh, that's very nice, Mr. Wentworth. No foreigner could have put it
nearly so well. Now, what about going on deck?'

'Anywhere, if you let me accompany you.'

'I shall be most delighted to have you. I won't say merely a trifle
delighted.'

'Ah! Haven't you forgiven that remark yet?'

'There's nothing to forgive, and it is quite too delicious to forget. I
shall never forget it.'

'I believe that you are very cruel at heart, Miss Brewster.'

The young woman gave him a curious side-look, but did not answer. She
gathered the wraps she had taken from her cabin, and, handing them to him
before he had thought of offering to take them, she led the way to the
deck. He found their chairs side by side, and admired the intelligence of
the deck-steward, who seemed to understand which chairs to place
together. Miss Jennie sank gracefully into her own, and allowed him to
adjust the wraps around her.

'There,' she said, 'that's very nicely done; as well as the deck-steward
himself could do it, and I am sure it is impossible to pay you a more
graceful compliment than that. So few men know how to arrange one
comfortably in a steamer chair.'

'You speak as though you had vast experience in steamer life, and yet you
told me this was your first voyage.'

'It is. But it doesn't take a woman more than a day to see that the
average man attends to such little niceties very clumsily. Now just tuck
in the corner out of sight. There! Thank you, ever so much. And would you
be kind enough to--Yes, that's better. And this other wrap so. Oh, that
is perfect. What a patient man you are, Mr. Wentworth!'

'Yes, Miss Brewster. You _are_ a foreigner. I can see that now. Your
professed compliment was hollow. You said I did it perfectly, and then
immediately directed me how to do it.'

'Nothing of the kind. You did it well, and I think you ought not to
grudge me the pleasure of adding my own little improvements.'

'Oh, if you put it in that way, I will not. Now, before I sit down, tell
me what book I can get that will interest you. The library contains a
very good assortment.'

'I don't think I care about reading. Sit down and talk. I suppose I am
too indolent to-day. I thought, when I came on board, that I would do a
lot of reading, but I believe the sea-air makes one lazy. I must confess
I feel entirely indifferent to mental improvement.'

'You evidently do not think my conversation will be at all worth
listening to.'

'How quick you are to pervert my meaning! Don't you see that I think
your conversation better worth listening to than the most interesting or
improving book you can choose from the library? Really, in trying to
avoid giving you cause for making such a remark, I have apparently
stumbled into a worse error. I was just going to say I would like your
conversation much better than a book, when I thought you would take that
as a reflection on your reading. If you take me up so sharply I will sit
here and say nothing. Now then, talk!'

'What shall I say?'

'Oh, if I told you what to say I should be doing the talking. Tell me
about yourself. What do you do in London?'

'I work hard. I am an accountant.'

'And what is an accountant? What does he do? Keep accounts?'

'Some of them do; I do not. I see, rather, that accounts which other
people keep have been correctly kept.'

'Aren't they always correctly kept? I thought that was what book-keepers
were hired for.'

'If books were always correctly kept there would be little for us to do;
but it happens, unfortunately for some, but fortunately for us, that
people occasionally do not keep their accounts accurately.'

'And can you always find that out if you examine the books?'

'Always.'

'Can't a man make up his accounts so that no one can tell there is
anything wrong?'

'The belief that such a thing can be done has placed many a poor wretch
in prison. It has been tried often enough.'

'I am sure they can do it in the States. I have read of it being done and
continued for years. Men have made off with great sums of money by
falsifying the books, and no one found it out until the one who did it
died or ran away.'

'Nevertheless, if an expert accountant had been called in, he would have
found out very soon that something was wrong, and just where the wrong
was, and how much.'

'I didn't think such cleverness possible. Have you ever discovered
anything like that?'

'I have.'

'What is done when such a thing is discovered?'

'That depends upon circumstances. Usually a policeman is called in.'

'Why, it's like being a detective. I wish you would tell me about some of
the cases you have had. Don't make me ask so many questions. Talk.'

'I don't think my experiences would interest you in the least. There
was one case with which I had something to do in London, two years
ago, that----'

'Oh, London! I don't believe the book-keepers there are half so sharp as
ours. If you had to deal with American accountants, you would not find
out so easily what they had or had not done.'

'Well, Miss Brewster, I may say I have just had an experience of that
kind with some of your very sharpest American book-keepers. I found that
the books had been kept in the most ingenious way with the intent to
deceive. The system had been going on for years.'

'How interesting! And did you call in a policeman?'

'No. This was one of the cases where a policeman was not necessary. The
books were kept with the object of showing that the profits of the m--of
the business--had been much greater than they really were. I may say that
one of your American accountants had already looked over the books, and,
whether through ignorance or carelessness, or from a worse motive, he
reported them all right. They were not all right, and the fact that they
were not, will mean the loss of a fortune to some people on your side of
the water, and the saving of good money to others on my side.'

'Then I think your profession must be a very important one.'

'We think so, Miss Brewster. I would like to be paid a percentage on the
money saved because of my report.'

'And won't you?'

'Unfortunately, no.'

'I think that is too bad. I suppose the discrepancy must have been small,
or the American accountant would not have overlooked it?'

'I didn't say he overlooked it. Still, the size of a discrepancy does not
make any difference. A small error is as easily found as a large one.
This one was large. I suppose there is no harm in my saying that the
books, taking them together, showed a profit of forty thousand pounds,
when they should have shown a loss of nearly half that amount. I hope
nobody overhears me.'

'No; we are quite alone, and you may be sure I will not breathe a word
of what you have been telling me.'

'Don't breathe it to Kenyon, at least. He would think me insane if he
knew what I have said.'

'Is Mr. Kenyon an accountant, too?'

'Oh no. He is a mineralogist. He can go into a mine, and tell with
reasonable certainty whether it will pay the working or not. Of course,
as he says himself, any man can see six feet into the earth as well as he
can. But it is not every man that can gauge the value of a working mine
so well as John Kenyon.'

'Then, while you were delving among the figures, your companion was
delving among the minerals?'

'Precisely.'

'And did he make any such startling discovery as you did?'

'No; rather the other way. He finds the mines very good properties, and
he thinks that if they were managed intelligently they would be good
paying investments--that is, at a proper price, you know--not at what the
owners ask for them at present. But you can have no possible interest in
these dry details.'

'Indeed, you are mistaken. I think what you have told me intensely
interesting.'

For once in her life Miss Jennie Brewster told the exact truth. The
unfortunate man at her side was flattered.

'For what I have told you,' he said, 'we were offered twice what the
London people pay us for coming out here. In fact, even more than that:
we were asked to name our own price.'

'Really now! By the owners of the property, I suppose, if you wouldn't
tell on them?'

'No. By one of your famous New York newspaper men. He even went so far
as to steal the papers that Kenyon had in Ottawa. He was cleverly caught,
though, before he could make any use of what he had stolen. In fact,
unless his people in New York had the figures which were originally
placed before the London Board, I doubt if my statistics would have been
of much use to him even if he had been allowed to keep them. The full
significance of my report will not show until the figures I have given
are compared with those already in the hands of the London people, which
were vouched for as correct by your clever American accountant.'

'You shouldn't run down an accountant just because he is American.
Perhaps there will come a day, Mr. Wentworth, when you will admit that
there are Americans who are more clever than either that accountant or
that newspaper man. I don't think your specimens are typical.'

'I don't "run down," as you call it, the men because they are Americans.
I "run down" the accountant because he was either ignorant or corrupt. I
"run down" the newspaper man because he was a thief.'

Miss Brewster was silent for a few moments. She was impressing on her
memory what he had said to her, and was anxious to get away, so that she
could write out in her cabin exactly what had been told her. The sound of
the lunch-gong gave her the excuse she needed, so, bidding her victim a
pleasant and friendly farewell, she hurried from the deck to her
state-room.




CHAPTER VII.


One morning, when Kenyon went to his state-room on hearing the
breakfast-gong, he found the lazy occupant of the upper berth still
in his bunk.

'Come, Wentworth,' he shouted, 'this won't do, you know. Get up! get up!
breakfast, my boy! breakfast!--the most important meal in the day to a
healthy man.'

Wentworth yawned and stretched his arms over his head.

'What's the row?' he asked.

'The row is, it's time to get up. The second gong has sounded.'

'Dear me! is it so late? I didn't hear it.' Wentworth sat up in his bunk,
and looked ruefully over the precipice down the chasm to the floor. 'Have
you been up long?' he asked.

'Long? I have been on deck an hour and a half,' answered Kenyon.

'Then, Miss What's-her-Name must have been there also.'

'Her name is Miss Longworth,' replied Kenyon, without looking at his
comrade.

'That's her name, is it? and she _was_ on deck?'

'She was.'

'I thought so,' said Wentworth; 'just look at the divine influence of
woman! Miss Longworth rises early, therefore John Kenyon rises early.
Miss Brewster rises late, therefore George Wentworth is not seen until
breakfast-time. If the conditions were reversed, I suppose the getting-up
time of the two men would be changed accordingly.'

'Not at all, George--not at all. I would rise early whether anybody else
on board did or not. In fact, when I got on deck this morning, I expected
to have it to myself.'

'I take it, though, that you were not grievously disappointed when you
found you hadn't a monopoly?'

'Well, to tell the truth, I was not; Miss Longworth is a charmingly
sensible girl.'

'Oh, they all are,' said Wentworth lightly. 'You had no sympathy for
me the other day. Now you know how it is yourself, as they say across
the water.'

'I don't know how it is myself. The fact is, we were talking business.'

'Really? Did you get so far?'

'Yes, we got so far, if that is any distance. I told her about the
mica-mine.'

'Oh, you did! What did she say? Will she invest?'

'Well, when I told her we expected to form a company for fifty thousand
pounds, she said it was such a small sum, she doubted if we could get
anybody interested in it in London.'

Wentworth, who was now well advanced with his dressing, gave a long
whistle.

'Fifty thousand pounds a small sum? Why, John, she must be very wealthy!
Probably more so than the American millionairess.'

'Well, George, you see, the difference between the two young ladies is
this: that while American heiresses are apt to boast of their immense
wealth, English women say nothing about it.'

'If you mean Miss Brewster when you speak in that way, you are entirely
mistaken. She has never alluded to her wealth at all, with the exception
of saying that her father was a millionaire. So if the young woman you
speak of has been talking of her wealth at all, she has done more than
the American girl.'

'She said nothing to indicate she was wealthy. I merely conjectured it
when I discovered she looked upon fifty thousand pounds as a triviality.'

'Well, the fault is easily remedied. We may raise the price of the mine
to one hundred thousand pounds if we can get people to invest. Perhaps
the young lady's father might care to go in for it at that figure.'

'Oh, by the way, Wentworth,' said Kenyon, 'I forgot to tell you, Miss
Longworth's father is one of the London Syndicate.'

'By Jove! are you sure of that? How do you know? You weren't talking of
our mission out there, were you?'

'Certainly not,' replied Kenyon, flushing. 'You don't think I would speak
of that to a stranger, do you? nor of anything concerned with our
reports.'

Wentworth proceeded with his dressing, a guilty feeling rising in his
heart.

'I want to ask you a question about that.'

'About what?' said Wentworth shortly.

'About those mines. Miss Longworth's father being a member of the London
Syndicate, suppose he asks what our views in relation to the matter are:
would we be justified in telling him anything?'

'He won't ask me as I don't know him; he may ask you, and if he does,
then you will have to decide the question for yourself.'

'Would you say anything about it if you were in my place?'

'Oh, I don't know. If we were certain it was all right--if you are sure
he _is_ a member of the syndicate, and he happens to ask you about it, I
scarcely see how you can avoid telling him.'

'It would be embarrassing; so I hope he won't ask me. We should not speak
of it until we give in our reports. He knows, however, that you are the
accountant who has that part of the business in charge.'

'Oh, then you have been talking with him?'

'Just a moment or two, after his daughter introduced me.'

'What did you say his name was?'

'John Longworth, I believe. I am sure about the Longworth, but not about
the John.'

'Oh, old John Longworth in the City! Certainly; I know all about him. I
never saw him before, but I think we are quite safe in telling him
anything he wants to know, if he asks.'

'Breakfast, gentlemen,' said the steward, putting his head in at the
door.

After breakfast Edith Longworth and her cousin walked the deck together.
Young Longworth, although in better humour than he had been the night
before, was still rather short in his replies, and irritating in his
questions.

'Aren't you tired of this eternal parade up and down?' he asked his
cousin. 'It seems to me like a treadmill--as if a person had to work for
his board and lodging.'

'Let us sit down then,' she replied; 'although I think a walk before
lunch or dinner increases the attractiveness of those meals wonderfully.'

'I never feel the need of working up an appetite,' he answered pettishly.

'Well, as I said before, let us sit down;' and the girl, having found
her chair, lifted the rug that lay upon it, and took her place.

The young man, after standing for a moment looking at her through his
glistening monocle, finally sat down beside her.

'The beastly nuisance of living on board ship,' he said, 'is that you
can't play billiards.'

'I am sure you play enough at cards to satisfy you during the few days we
are at sea,' she answered.

'Oh, cards! I soon tire of them.'

'You tire very quickly of everything.'

'I certainly get tired of lounging about the deck, either walking or
sitting.'

'Then, pray don't let me keep you.'

'You want me to go so you may walk with your newly-found friend, that
miner fellow?'

'That miner fellow is talking with my father just now. Still, if you
would like to know, I have no hesitation in telling you I would much
prefer his company to yours if you continue in your present mood.'

'Yes, or in any mood.'

'I did not say that; but if it will comfort you to have me say it, I
shall be glad to oblige you.'

'Perhaps, then, I should go and talk with your father, and let the miner
fellow come here and talk with you.'

'Please do not call him the miner fellow. His name is Mr. Kenyon. It is
not difficult to remember.'

'I know his name well enough. Shall I send him to you?'

'No. I want to talk with you in spite of your disagreeableness. And what
is more, I want to talk with you about Mr. Kenyon. So I wish you to
assume your very best behaviour. It may be for your benefit.'

The young man indulged in a sarcastic laugh.

'Oh, if you are going to do that, I have nothing more to say,' remarked
Edith quietly, rising from her chair.

'I meant no harm. Sit down and go on with your talk.'

'Listen, then. Mr. Kenyon has the option of a mine in Canada, which he
believes to be a good property. He intends to form a company when he
reaches London. Now, why shouldn't you make friends with him, and, if you
found the property is as good as he thinks it is, help him to form the
company, and so make some money for both of you?'

'You are saying one word for me and two for Kenyon.'

'No, it would be as much for your benefit as for his, so it is a word for
each of you.'

'You are very much interested in him.'

'My dear cousin, I am very much interested in the mine, and I am very
much interested in you. Mr. Kenyon can speak of nothing but the mine,
and I am sure my father would be pleased to see you take an interest in
something of the sort. I mean, you know that if you would do something
of your own accord--something that was not suggested to you by him--he
would like it.'

'Well, it is suggested to me by you, and that's almost the same thing.'

'No, it is not the same thing at all. Father would indeed be glad if he
saw you take up anything on your own account and make a success of it.
Why can you not spend some of your time talking with Mr. Kenyon
discussing arrangements, so that when you return to London you might be
prepared to put the mine on the market and bring out the company?'

'If I thought you were talking to me for my own sake, I would do what
you suggest; but I believe you are speaking only because you are
interested in Kenyon.'

'Nonsense! How can you be so absurd? I have known Mr. Kenyon but for a
few hours--a day or two at most.'

The young man pulled his moustache for a moment, adjusted his eyeglass,
and then said:

'Very good. I will speak to Kenyon on the subject if you wish it, but I
don't say that I can help him.'

'I don't ask you to help him. I ask you to help yourself. Here is Mr.
Kenyon. Let me introduce you, and then you can talk over the project at
your leisure.'

'I don't suppose an introduction is necessary,' growled the young man;
but as Kenyon approached them, Edith Longworth said:

'We are a board of directors, Mr. Kenyon, on the great mica-mine. Will
you join the Board now, or after allotment?' Then, before he could reply,
she said: 'Mr. Kenyon, this is my cousin, Mr. William Longworth.'

Longworth, without rising from his chair, shook hands in rather a surly
fashion.

'I am going to speak to my father,' said the girl, 'and will leave you to
talk over the mica-mine.'

When she had gone, young Longworth asked Kenyon:

'Where is the mine my cousin speaks of?'

'It is near the Ottawa River, in Canada,' was the answer.

'And what do you expect to sell it for?'

'Fifty thousand pounds.'

'Fifty thousand pounds! That will leave nothing to divide up among--by
the way, how many are there in this thing--yourself alone?'

'No; my friend Wentworth shares with me.'

'Share and share alike?'

'Yes.'

'Of course, you think this mine is worth the money you ask for it--there
is no swindle about it, is there?'

Kenyon drew himself up sharply as this remark was made. Then he answered
coldly:

'If there was any swindle about it, I should have nothing to do with it.'

'Well, you see, I didn't know; mining swindles are not such rarities as
you may imagine. If the mine is so valuable, why are the proprietors
anxious to sell?'

'The owners are in Austria, and the mine in Canada, and so it is rather
at arm's-length, as it were. They are mining for mica, but the mine is
more valuable in other respects than it is as a mica property. They have
placed a figure on the mine which is more than it has cost them so far.'

'You know its value in those other respects?'

'I do.'

'Does anyone know this except yourself?'

'I think not--no one but my friend Wentworth.'

'How did you come to learn its value?'

'By visiting the mine. Wentworth and I went together to see it.'

'Oh, is Wentworth also a mining expert?'

'No; he is an accountant in London.'

'Both of you were sent out by the London Syndicate, I understand, to look
after their mines, or the mines they thought of purchasing, were you
not?'

'We were.'

'And you spent your time in looking up other properties for yourselves,
did you?'

Kenyon reddened at this question.

'My dear sir,' he said, 'if you are going to talk in this strain, you
will have to excuse me. We were sent by the London Syndicate to do a
certain thing. We did it, and did it thoroughly. After it was done the
time was our own, as much as it is at the present moment. We were not
hired by the day, but took a stated sum for doing a certain piece of
work. I may go further and say that the time was our own at any period
of our visit, so long as we fulfilled what the London Syndicate
required of us.'

'Oh, I meant no offence,' said Longworth. 'You merely seemed to be posing
as a sort of goody-goody young man when I spoke of mining swindles, so I
only wished to startle you. How much have you to pay for the mine--that
is the mica-mine?'

Kenyon hesitated for a moment.

'I do not feel at liberty to mention the sum until I have consulted with
my friend Wentworth.'

'Well, you see, if I am to help you in this matter, I shall need to know
every particular.'

'Certainly. I shall have to consult Wentworth as to whether we require
any help or not.'

'Oh, you will speedily find that you require all the help you can get in
London. You will probably learn that a hundred such mines are for sale
now, and the chances are you will find that this very mica-mine has been
offered. What do you believe the mine is really worth?'

'I think it is worth anywhere from one hundred thousand pounds to two
hundred thousand pounds, perhaps more.'

'Is it actually worth one hundred thousand pounds?'

'According to my estimate, it is.'

'Is it worth one hundred and fifty thousand pounds?'

'It is.'

'Is it worth two hundred thousand pounds?'

'I think so.'

'What percentage would it pay on two hundred thousand pounds?'

'It might pay ten per cent., perhaps more.'

'Why, in the name of all that is wonderful, don't you put the price at
two hundred thousand pounds? If it will pay ten per cent and more on that
amount of money, then that sum is what you ought to sell it for. Now we
will investigate this matter, if you like, and if you wish to take me in
with you, and put the price up to two hundred thousand pounds, I will see
what can be done about it when we get to London. Of course, it will mean
somebody going out to Canada again to report on the mine. Your report
would naturally not be taken in such a case; you are too vitally
interested.'

'Of course,' replied Kenyon, 'I shouldn't expect my report to have any
weight.'

'Well, somebody would have to be sent out to report on the mine. Are you
certain that it will stand thorough investigation?'

'I am convinced of it.'

'Would you be willing to make this proposition to the investors, that, if
the expert did not support your statement, you would pay his expenses out
there and back?'

'I would be willing to do that,' said Kenyon, 'if I had the money; but I
haven't the money.'

'Then, how do you expect to float the mine on the London market? It
cannot be done without money.'

'I thought I might be able to interest some capitalist.'

'I am much afraid, Mr. Kenyon, that you have vague ideas of how companies
are formed. Perhaps your friend Wentworth, being an accountant, may know
more about it.'

'Yes, I confess I am relying mainly on his assistance.'

'Well, will you agree to put the price of the mine at two hundred
thousand pounds, and share what we make equally between the three of us?'

'It is a large price.'

'It is not a large price if the mine will pay good dividends upon it; if
it will pay eight per cent. on that amount, it is the real price of the
mine, while you say that you are certain it will pay ten per cent.'

'I say I think it will pay that percentage. One never can speak with
entire certainty where a mine is concerned.'

'Are you willing to put the price of the mine at that figure? Otherwise,
I will have nothing to do with it.'

'As I said, I shall have to consult my friend about it, but that can be
done in a very short time, and I will answer you in the afternoon.'

'Good; there is no particular hurry. Have a talk over it with him, and
while I do not promise anything, I think the scheme looks feasible, if
the property is good. Remember, I know nothing at all about that, but if
you agree to take me in, I shall have to know full particulars of what
you are going to pay for the property, and what its peculiar value is.'

'Certainly. If we agree to take a partner, we will give that partner our
full confidence.'

'Well, there is nothing more to say until you have had a consultation
with your friend. Good-morning, Mr. Kenyon;' and with that Longworth
arose and lounged off to the smoking-room.

Kenyon waited where he was for some time, hoping Wentworth would come
along, but the young man did not appear. At last he went in search of
him. He passed along the deck, but found no trace of his friend, and
looked for a moment into the smoking-room, but Wentworth was not there.
He went downstairs to the saloon, but his search below was equally
fruitless. Coming up on deck again, he saw Miss Brewster sitting alone
reading a paper-covered novel.

'Have you seen my friend Wentworth?' he asked.

She laid the book open-faced upon her lap, and looked quickly up at
Kenyon before answering.

'I saw him not so very long ago, but I don't know where he is now.
Perhaps you will find him in his state-room; in fact, I think it more
than likely that he is there.'

With that, Miss Brewster resumed her book.

Kenyon descended to the state-room, opened the door, and saw his comrade
sitting upon the plush-covered sofa, with his head in his hands. At the
opening of the door, Wentworth started and looked for a moment at his
friend, apparently not seeing him. His face was so gray and ghastly that
Kenyon leaned against the door for support as he saw it.

'My God, George!' he cried, 'what is the matter with you? What has
happened? Tell me!'

Wentworth gazed in front of him with glassy eyes for a moment, but did
not answer. Then his head dropped again in his hands, and he groaned
aloud.




CHAPTER VIII.


There was one man on board the _Caloric_ to whom Wentworth had taken an
extreme dislike. His name was Fleming, and he claimed to be a New York
politician. As none of his friends or enemies asserted anything worse
about him, it may be assumed that Fleming had designated his occupation
correctly. If Wentworth were asked what he most disliked about the man,
he would probably have said his offensive familiarity. Fleming seemed to
think himself a genial good fellow, and he was immensely popular with a
certain class in the smoking-room. He was lavishly free with his
invitations to drink, and always had a case of good cigars in his pocket,
which he bestowed with great liberality. He had the habit of slapping a
man boisterously on the back, and saying, 'Well, old fellow, how are you?
How's things?' He usually confided to his listeners that he was a
self-made man: had landed at New York without a cent in his pocket, and
look at him now!

Wentworth was icy towards this man; but frigidity had no effect whatever
on the exuberant spirits of the New York politician.

'Well, old man!' cried Fleming to Wentworth, as he came up to the latter
and linked arms affectionately. 'What lovely weather we are having for
winter time!'

'It _is_ good,' said Wentworth.

'Good? It's glorious! Who would have thought, when leaving New York in a
snowstorm as we did, that we would run right into the heart of spring? I
hope you are enjoying your voyage?'

'I am.'

'You ought to. By the way, why are you so awful stand-offish? Is it
natural, or merely put on "for this occasion only"?'

'I do not know what you mean by "stand-offish."'

'You know very well what I mean. Why do you pretend to be so stiff and
formal with a fellow?'

'I am never stiff and formal with anyone unless I do not desire his
acquaintance.'

Fleming laughed loudly.

'I suppose that's a personal hint. Well, it seems to me, if this
exclusiveness is genuine, that you would be more afraid of newspaper
notoriety than of anything else.'

'Why do you say that?'

'Because I can't, for the life of me, see why you spend so much time with
Dolly Dimple. I am sure I don't know why she is here; but I do know this:
that you will be served up to the extent of two or three columns in the
_Sunday Argus_ as sure as you live.'

'I don't understand you.'

'You don't? Why, it's plain enough. You spend all your time with her.'

'I do not even know of whom you are speaking.'

'Oh, come now, that's too rich! Is it possible you don't know that Miss
Jennie Brewster is the one who writes those Sunday articles over the
signature of "Dolly Dimple"?'

A strange fear fell upon Wentworth as his companion mentioned the
_Argus_. He remembered it as J.K. Rivers' paper; but when Fleming said
Miss Brewster was a correspondent of the _Argus_, he was aghast.

'I--I--I don't think I quite catch your meaning,' he stammered.

'Well, my meaning's easy enough to see. Hasn't she ever told you? Then it
shows she wants to do you up on toast. You're not an English politician,
are you? You haven't any political secrets that Dolly wants to get at,
have you? Why, she is the greatest girl there is in the whole United
States for finding out just what a man doesn't want to have known. You
know the Secretary of State'--and here Fleming went on to relate a
wonderfully brilliant feat of Dolly's; but the person to whom he was
talking had neither eyes nor ears. He heard nothing and he saw nothing.

'Dear me!' said Fleming, drawing himself up and slapping the other on the
back, 'you look perfectly dumfounded. I suppose I oughtn't to have given
Dolly away like this; but she has pretended all along that she didn't
know me, and so I've got even with her. You take my advice, and anything
you don't want to see in print, don't tell Miss Brewster, that's all.
Have a cigar?'

'No, thank you,' replied the other mechanically.

'Better come in and have a drink.'

'No, thank you.'

'Well, so long. I'll see you later.'

'It can't be true--it can't be true!' Wentworth repeated to himself in
deep consternation, but still an inward misgiving warned him that, after
all, it might be true. With his hands clasped behind him he walked up and
down, trying to collect himself--trying to remember what he had told and
what he had not. As he walked along, heeding nobody, a sweet voice from
one of the chairs thrilled him, and he paused.

'Why, Mr. Wentworth, what is the matter with you this morning? You look
as if you had seen a ghost.'

Wentworth glanced at the young woman seated in the chair, who was gazing
up brightly at him.

'Well,' he said at last, 'I am not sure but I _have_ seen a ghost. May I
sit down beside you?'

'May you? Why, of course you may. I shall be delighted to have you. Is
there anything wrong?'

'I don't know. Yes, I think there is.'

'Well, tell it to me; perhaps I can help you. A woman's wit, you know.
What is the trouble?'

'May I ask you a few questions, Miss Brewster?'

'Certainly. A thousand of them, if you like, and I will answer them all
if I can.'

'Thank you. Will you tell me, Miss Brewster, if you are connected with
any newspaper?'

Miss Brewster laughed her merry, silvery little laugh.

'Who told you? Ah! I see how it is. It was that creature Fleming. I'll
get even with him for this some day. I know what office he is after, and
the next time he wants a good notice from the _Argus_ he'll get it; see
if he don't. I know some things about him that he would just as soon not
see in print. Why, what a fool the man is! I suppose he told you out of
revenge because I wouldn't speak to him the other evening. Never mind; I
can afford to wait.'

'Then--then, Miss Brewster, it _is_ true?'

'Certainly it is true; is there anything wrong about it? I hope you don't
think it is disreputable to belong to a good newspaper?'

'To a good newspaper, no; to a bad newspaper, yes.'

'Oh, I don't think the _Argus_ is a bad newspaper. It pays me well.'

'Then it is to the _Argus_ that you belong?'

'Certainly.'

'May I ask, Miss Brewster, if there is anything I have spoken about to
you that you intend to use in your paper?'

Again Miss Brewster laughed.

'I will be perfectly frank with you. I never tell a lie--it doesn't pay.
Yes. The reason I am here is because _you_ are here. I am here to find
out what your report on those mines will be, also what the report of your
friend will be. I have found out.'

'And do you intend to use the information you have thus obtained--if I
may say it--under false pretences?'

'My dear sir, you are forgetting yourself. You must remember that you are
talking to a lady.'

'A lady!' cried Wentworth in his anguish.

'Yes, sir, a lady; and you must be careful how you talk to _this_ lady.
There was no false pretence about it, if you remember. What you told me
was in conversation; I didn't ask you for it. I didn't even make the
first advances towards your acquaintance.'

'But you must admit, Miss Brewster, that it is very unfair to get a man
to engage in what he thinks is a private conversation, and then to
publish what he has said.'

'My dear sir, if that were the case, how would we get anything for
publication that people didn't want to be known? Why, I remember once,
when the Secretary of State----'

'Yes,' interrupted Wentworth wearily; 'Fleming told me that story.'

'Oh, did he? Well, I'm sure I'm much obliged to him. Then I need not
repeat it.'

'Do you mean to say that you intend to send to the _Argus_ for
publication what I have told you in confidence?'

'Certainly. As I said before, that is what I am here for. Besides, there
was no "in confidence" about it.'

'And yet you pretend to be a truthful, honest, honourable woman?'

'I don't _pretend_ it; I am.'

'How much truth, then, is there in your story that you are a
millionaire's daughter about to visit your father in Paris, and accompany
him from there to the Riviera?'

Miss Brewster laughed brightly.

'Oh, I don't call fibs, which a person has to tell in the way of
business, untruths.'

'Then probably you do not think your estimable colleague, Mr. J.K.
Rivers, behaved dishonourably in Ottawa?'

'Well, hardly. I think Rivers was not justified in what he did because he
was unsuccessful, that is all. I'll bet a dollar if I had got hold of
these papers they would have gone through to New York; but, then, J.K.
Rivers is only a stupid man, and most men _are_ stupid'--with a sly
glance at Wentworth.

'I am willing to admit that, Miss Brewster, if you mean me. There never
was a more stupid man than I have been.'

'My dear Mr. Wentworth, it will do you ever so much good if you come to
a realization of that fact. The truth is, you take yourself much too
seriously. Now, it won't hurt you a bit to have what I am going to send
published in the _Argus_, and it will help me a great deal. Just you wait
here for a few moments.'

With that she flung her book upon his lap, sprang up, and vanished down
the companion-way. In a very short time she reappeared with some sheets
of paper in her hand.

'Now you see how fair and honest I am going to be. I am going to read you
what I have written. If there is anything in it that is not true, I will
very gladly cut it out; and if there is anything more to be added, I
shall be very glad to add it. Isn't that fair?'

Wentworth was so confounded with the woman's impudence that he could make
no reply.

She began to read: '"By an unexampled stroke of enterprise the _New York
Argus_ is enabled this morning to lay before its readers a full and
exclusive account of the report made by the two English specialists, Mr.
George Wentworth and Mr. John Kenyon, who were sent over by the London
Syndicate to examine into the accounts, and inquire into the true value
of the mines of the Ottawa River."'

She looked up from the paper, and said, with an air of friendly
confidence:

'I shouldn't send that if I thought the people at the New York end would
know enough to write it themselves; but as the paper is edited by dull
men, and not by a sharp woman, I have to make them pay twenty-five cents
a word for puffing their own enterprise. Well, to go on: "When it is
remembered that the action of the London Syndicate will depend entirely
on the report of these two gentlemen--"'

'I wouldn't put it that way,' interrupted Wentworth in his despair. 'I
would use the word "largely" for "entirely."'

'Oh, _thank_ you,' said Miss Brewster cordially. She placed the
manuscript on her knee, and, with her pencil, marked out the word
'entirely,' substituting 'largely.' The reading went on: '"When it is
remembered that the action of the London Syndicate will depend _largely_
on the report of these two gentlemen, the enterprise of the _Argus_ in
getting this exclusive information, which will be immediately cabled to
London, may be imagined." That is the preliminary, you see; and, as I
said, it wouldn't be necessary to cable it if women were at the head of
affairs over there, which they are not. "Mr. John Kenyon, the mining
expert, has visited all the mineral ranges along the Ottawa River, and
his report is that the mines are very much what is claimed for them; but
he thinks they are not worked properly, although, with judicious
management and more careful mining, the properties can be made to pay
good dividends. Mr. George Wentworth, who is one of the leading
accountants of London--"'

'I wouldn't say that, either,' groaned George. 'Just strike out the words
"one of the leading accountants of London."'

'Yes?' said Miss Brewster; 'and what shall I put in the place of them?'

'Put in place of them "the stupidest ass in London"!'

Miss Brewster laughed at that.

'No; I shall put in what I first wrote: "Mr. George Wentworth, one of
the leading accountants of London, has gone through the books of the
different mines. He has made some startling discoveries. The accounts
have been kept in such a way as to completely delude investors, and this
fact will have a powerful effect on the minds of the London Syndicate.
The books of the different mines show a profit of about two hundred
thousand dollars, whereas the actual facts of the case are that there has
been an annual loss of something like one hundred thousand dollars--"'

'What's that? what's that?' cried Wentworth sharply.

'Dollars, you know. You said twenty thousand pounds. We put it in
dollars, don't you see?'

'Oh,' said Wentworth, relapsing again.

'"One hundred thousand dollars"--where was I? Oh yes. "It is claimed
that an American expert went over these books before Mr. Wentworth, and
that he asserted they were all right. An explanation from this gentleman
will now be in order."'

'There!' cried the young lady, 'that is the substance of the thing. Of
course, I may amplify a little more before we get to Queenstown, so as to
make them pay more money. People don't value a thing that doesn't cost
them dearly. How do you like it? Is it correct?'

'Perfectly correct,' answered the miserable young man.

'Oh, I am so glad you like it! I do love to have things right.'

'I didn't say I _liked_ it.'

'No, of course, you couldn't be expected to say that; but I am glad you
think it is accurate. I will add a note to the effect that you think it
is a good _résumé_ of your report.'

'For Heaven's sake, don't drag me into the matter!' cried Wentworth.

'Well, I won't, if you don't want me to.'

There was silence for a few moments, during which the young woman seemed
to be adding commas and full-stops to the MS. on her knee. Wentworth
cleared his throat two or three times, but his lips were so dry that he
could hardly speak. At last he said:

'Miss Brewster, how can I induce you not to send that from Queenstown to
your paper?'

The young woman looked up at him with a pleasant bright smile.

'Induce me? Why, you couldn't do it--it couldn't be done. This will be
one of the greatest triumphs I have ever achieved. Think of Rivers
failing in it, and me accomplishing it!'

'Yes; I have thought of that,' replied the young man despondently. 'Now,
perhaps you don't know that the full report was mailed from Ottawa to our
house in London, and the moment we get to Queenstown I will telegraph my
partners to put the report in the hands of the directors?'

'Oh, I know all about that,' replied Miss Brewster; 'Rivers told me. He
read the letter that was enclosed with the documents he took from your
friend. Now, have you made any calculations about this voyage?'

'Calculations? I don't know what you mean.'

'Well, I mean just this: We shall probably reach Queenstown on Saturday
afternoon. This report, making allowance for the difference in the time,
will appear in the _Argus_ on Sunday morning. Your telegram will reach
your house or your firm on Saturday night, when nothing can be done with
it. Sunday nothing can be done. Monday morning, before your report will
reach the directors, the substance of what has appeared in the _Argus_
will be in the financial papers, cabled over to London on Sunday night.
The first thing your directors will see of it will be in the London
financial papers on Monday morning. That's what I mean, Mr. Wentworth, by
calculating the voyage.'

Wentworth said no more. He staggered to his feet and made his way as best
he could to the state-room, groping like a blind man. There he sat down
with his head in his hands, and there his friend Kenyon found him.




CHAPTER IX.


'Tell me what has happened,' demanded John Kenyon.

Wentworth looked up at him.

'Everything has happened,' he answered.

'What do you mean, George? Are you ill? What is the matter with you?'

'I am worse than ill, John--a great deal worse than ill. I wish I
were ill.'

'That wouldn't help things, whatever is wrong. Come, wake up. Tell me
what the trouble is.'

'John, I am a fool--an ass--a gibbering idiot.'

'Admitting that, what then?'

'I trusted a woman--imbecile that I am; and now--now--I'm what you see
me.'

'Has--has Miss Brewster anything to do with it?' asked Kenyon
suspiciously.

'She has everything to do with it.'

'Has she--rejected you, George?'

'What! _that_ girl? Oh, you're the idiot now. Do you think I would
ask _her_?'

'I cannot be blamed for jumping at conclusions. You must remember "that
girl," as you call her, has had most of your company during this voyage;
and most of your good words when you were not with her. What _is_ the
matter? What has she to do with your trouble?'

Wentworth paced up and down the narrow limits of the state-room as if he
were caged. He smote his hand against his thigh, while Kenyon looked at
him in wonder.

'I don't know how I can tell you, John,' he said. 'I must, of course; but
I don't know how I can.'

'Come on deck with me.'

'Never.'

'Come out, I say, into the fresh air. It is stuffy here, and, besides,
there is more danger of being overheard in the state-room than on deck.
Come along, old fellow.'

He caught his companion by the arm, and partly dragged him out of the
room, closing the door behind him.

'Pull yourself together,' he said. 'A little fresh air will do you good.'

They made their way to the deck, and, linking arms, walked up and down.
For a long time Wentworth said nothing, and Kenyon had the tact to hold
his peace. Suddenly Wentworth noticed that they were pacing back and
forth in front of Miss Brewster, so he drew his friend away to another
part of the ship. After a few turns up and down, he said:

'You remember Rivers, of course.'

'Distinctly.'

'He was employed on that vile sheet, the _New York Argus_.'

'I suppose it is a vile sheet. I don't remember ever seeing it. Yes, I
know he was connected with that paper. What then? What has Miss Brewster
to do with Rivers?'

'She is one of the _Argus_ staff, too.'

'George Wentworth, you don't mean to tell me that!'

'I do.'

'And is she here to find out about the mine?'

'Exactly. She was put on the job after Rivers had failed.'

'George!' said Kenyon, suddenly dropping his companion's arm and facing
him. 'What have you told her?'

'There is the misery of it. I have told her everything.'

'My dear fellow, how could you be----'

'Oh, I know--I know! I know everything you would say. Everything you can
say I have said to myself, and ten times more and ten times worse. There
is nothing you can say of me more bitter than what I think about myself.'

'Did you tell her anything about _my_ report?'

'I told her everything--_everything_! Do you understand? She is going
to telegraph from Queenstown the full essence of the reports--of both
our reports.'

'Heavens! this is fearful. Is there no way to prevent her sending it?'

'If you think you can prevent her, I wish you would try it.'

'How did you find it out? Did _she_ tell you?'

'Oh, it doesn't matter how I found it out. I did find it out. A man told
me who she was; then I asked her, and she was perfectly frank about it.
She read me the report, even.'

'Read it to you?'

'Yes, read it to me, and punctuated it in my presence--put in some words
that I suggested as being better than those she had used. Oh, it was the
coolest piece of work you ever saw!'

'But there must be some way of preventing her getting that account to New
York in time. You see, all we have to do is to wire your people to hand
in our report to the directors, and then hers is forestalled. She has to
telegraph from a British office, and it seems to me that we could stop
her in some way.'

'As, for instance, how?'

'Oh, I don't know just how at the moment, but we ought to be able to do
it. If it were a man, we could have him arrested as a dynamiter or
something; but a woman, of course, is more difficult to deal with.
George, I would appeal to her better nature if I were you.'

Wentworth laughed sneeringly.

'Better nature?' he said. 'She hasn't any; and that is not the worst of
it. She has "calculated," as she calls it, all the possibilities in the
affair; she "calculates" that we will reach Queenstown about Saturday
night. If we do, she will get her report through in time to be
published on Sunday in the _New York Argus_. If that is the case, then
see where our telegram will be. We telegraph our people to send in the
report. It reaches the office Saturday night, and is not read. The
office closes at two o'clock; but even if they got it, and understood
the urgency of the matter, they could not place the papers before the
directors until Monday morning, and by Monday morning it will be in the
London financial sheets.'

'George, that woman is a fiend.'

'No, she isn't, John. She is merely a clever American journalist, who
thinks she has done a very good piece of work indeed, and who, through
the stupidity of one man, has succeeded, that's all.'

'Have you made any appeal to her at all?'

'Oh, haven't I! Of course I have. What good did it do? She merely laughed
at me. Don't you understand? That is what she is here for. Her whole
voyage is for that one purpose; and it's not likely the woman is going to
forego her triumph after having succeeded--more especially as somebody
else in the same office has failed. That's what gives additional zest to
what she has done. The fact that Rivers has failed and she has triumphed
seems to be the great feather in her cap.'

'Then,' said Kenyon, 'I'm going to appeal to Miss Brewster myself.'

'Very well. I wish you joy of your job. But do what you can, John,
there's a good fellow. Meanwhile, I want to be alone somewhere.'

Wentworth went down the stairway that led to the steerage department, and
for a few moments sat among the steerage passengers. Then he climbed up
another ladder, and got to the very front of the ship. Here he sat down
on a coil of rope, and thought over the situation. Thinking, however, did
him very little good. He realized that, even if he got hold of the paper
Miss Brewster had, she could easily write another. She had the facts in
her head, and all that she needed to do was to get to a telegraph office
and there hand in her message.

Meanwhile, Kenyon took a few turns up and down the deck, thinking deeply
on the same subject. He passed over to the side where Miss Brewster sat,
but on coming opposite her had not the courage to take his place beside
her. She was calmly reading her book. Three times he came opposite her,
paused for a moment, and then continued his hopeless march. He saw that
his courage was not going to be sufficient for the task, and yet he felt
the task must be accomplished. He didn't know how to begin. He didn't
know what inducement to offer the young woman for foregoing the fruits of
her ingenuity. He felt that this was the weak point in his armour. The
third time he paused in front of Miss Brewster; she looked up and
motioned him to the chair beside her, saying:

'I do not know you very well, Mr. Kenyon, but I know who you are. Won't
you sit down here for a moment?'

The bewildered man took the chair she indicated.

'Now, Mr. Kenyon, I know just what is troubling you. You have passed
three or four times wishing to sit down beside me, and yet afraid to
venture. Is that not true?'

'Quite true.'

'I knew it was. Now I know also what you have come for. Mr. Wentworth
has told you what the trouble is. He has told you that he has given me
all the particulars about the mines, hasn't he?'

'He has.'

'And he has gone off to his state-room to think over the matter, and has
left the affair in your hands, and you imagine you can come here to me
and, perhaps, talk me out of sending that despatch to the _Argus_. Isn't
that your motive?'

'That is about what I hope to be able to do,' said Kenyon, mopping his
brow.

'Well, I thought I might just as well put you out of your misery at once.
You take things very seriously, Mr. Kenyon--I can see that. Now, don't
you?'

'I am afraid I do.'

'Why, of course you do. The publication of this, as I told Mr. Wentworth,
will really not matter at all. It will not be any reflection on either of
you, because your friends will be sure that, if you had known to whom you
were talking, you would never have said anything about the mines.'

Kenyon smiled grimly at this piece of comfort.

'Now, I have been thinking about something since Mr. Wentworth went away.
I am really very sorry for him. I am more sorry than I can tell.'

'Then,' said Kenyon eagerly, 'won't you----'

'No, I won't, so we needn't recur to that phase of the subject. That is
what I am here for, and, no matter what you say, the despatch is going to
be sent. Now, it is better to understand that at the first, and then it
will create no trouble afterwards. Don't you think that is the best?'

'Probably,' answered the wretched man.

'Well, then, let us start there. I will say in the cablegram that the
information comes from neither Mr. Kenyon nor Mr. Wentworth.'

'Yes, but that wouldn't be true.'

'Why, of course it wouldn't be true; but that doesn't matter, does it?'

'Well, on our side of the water,' said Kenyon, 'we think the truth
does matter.'

Miss Brewster laughed heartily.

'Dear me!' she said, 'what little tact you have! How does it concern you
whether it is true or not? If there is any falsehood, it is not you who
tell it, so you are free from all blame. Indeed, you are free from all
blame anyhow, in this affair; it is all your friend Wentworth's fault;
but still, if it hadn't been Wentworth, it would have been you.'

Kenyon looked up at her incredulously.

'Oh yes, it would,' she said, nodding confidently at him. 'You must not
flatter yourself, because Mr. Wentworth told me everything about it, that
you wouldn't have done just the same, if I had had to find it out from
you. All men are pretty much alike where women are concerned.'

'Can I say nothing to you, Miss Brewster, which will keep you from
sending the message to America?'

'You cannot, Mr. Kenyon. I thought we had settled that at the beginning.
I see there is no use talking to you. I will return to my book, which is
very interesting. Good-morning, Mr. Kenyon.'

Kenyon felt the hopelessness of his project quite as much as Wentworth
had done, and, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, he wandered
disconsolately up and down the deck.

As he went to the other side of the deck, he met Miss Longworth walking
alone. She smiled a cordial welcome to him, so he turned and changed his
step to suit hers.

'May I walk with you a few minutes?' he said.

'Of course you may,' was the reply, 'What is the matter? You are looking
very unhappy.'

'My comrade and myself are in great trouble, and I thought I should like
to talk with you about it.'

'I am sure if there is anything I can do to help you, I shall be most
glad to do it.'

'Perhaps you may suggest something. You see, two men dealing with one
woman are perfectly helpless.'

'Ah, who is the one woman--not I, is it?'

'No, not you, Miss Longworth. I wish it were, then we would have no
trouble.'

'Oh, thank you!'

'You see, it is like this: When we were in Quebec--I think I told you
about that--the _New York Argus_ sent a man to find out what we had
reported, or were going to report, to the London Syndicate.'

'Yes, you told me that.'

'Rivers was his name. Well, this same paper, finding that Rivers had
failed after having stolen the documents, has tried a much more subtle
scheme, which promises to be successful. They have put on board this ship
a young woman who has gained a reputation for learning secrets not
intended for the public. This young woman is Miss Brewster, who sits next
Wentworth at the table. Fate seems to have played right into her hand
and placed her beside him. They became acquainted, and, unfortunately, my
friend has told her a great deal about the mines, which she professed an
interest in. Or, rather, she pretended to have an interest in him, and so
he spoke, being, of course, off his guard. There is no more careful
fellow in the world than George Wentworth, but a man does not expect that
a private conversation with a lady will ever appear in a newspaper.'

'Naturally not.'

'Very well, that is the state of things. In some manner Wentworth came to
know that this young woman was the special correspondent of the _New York
Argus_. He spoke to her about it, and she is perfectly frank in saying
she is here solely for the purpose of finding out what the reports will
be, and that the moment she gets to Queenstown she will cable what she
has discovered to New York.'

'Dear me! that is very perplexing. What have you done?'

'We have done nothing so far, or rather, I should say, we have tried
everything we could think of, and have accomplished nothing. Wentworth
has appealed to her, and I made a clumsy attempt at an appeal also, but
it was of no use. I feel my own helplessness in this matter, and
Wentworth is completely broken down over it.'

'Poor fellow! I am sure of that. Let me think a moment.'

They walked up and down the deck in silence for a few minutes. Then Miss
Longworth looked up at Kenyon, and said;

'Will you place this matter in my hands?'

'Certainly, if you will be so kind as to take any interest in it.'

'I take a great deal of interest. Of course, you know my father is deeply
concerned in it also, so I am acting in a measure for him.'

'Have you any plan?'

'Yes; my plan is simply this: The young woman is working for money; now,
if we can offer her more than her paper gives, she will very quickly
accept, or I am much mistaken in the kind of woman she is.'

'Ah, yes,' said Kenyon; 'but we haven't the money, you see.'

'Never mind; the money will be quickly forthcoming. Don't trouble any
more about it. I am sure that can be arranged.'

Kenyon thanked her, looking his gratitude rather than speaking it, for
he was an unready man, and she bade him good-bye until she could think
over her plan.

That evening there was a tap at the state-room door of Miss Jennie
Brewster.

'Come in,' cried the occupant.

Miss Longworth entered, and the occupant of the room looked up, with a
frown, from her writing.

'May I have a few moments' conversation with you?' asked the visitor
gravely.




CHAPTER X.


Miss Jennie Brewster was very much annoyed at being interrupted, and she
took no pains to conceal her feelings. She was writing an article
entitled 'How People kill Time on Shipboard,' and she did not wish to be
disturbed; besides, as she often said of herself, she was not 'a woman's
woman,' and she neither liked, nor was liked by, her own sex.

'I desire a few moments' conversation with you, if I have your
permission,' said Edith Longworth, as she closed the door behind her.

'Certainly,' answered Jennie Brewster. 'Will you sit down?'

'Thank you,' replied the other, as she took a seat on the sofa. 'I do not
know just how to begin what I wish to say. Perhaps it will be better to
commence by telling you that I know why you are on board this steamer.'

'Yes; and why am I on board the steamer, may I ask?'

'You are here, I understand, to get certain information from Mr.
Wentworth. You have obtained it, and it is in reference to this that I
have come to see you.'

'Indeed! and are you so friendly with Mr. Wentworth that you----'

'I scarcely know Mr. Wentworth at all.'

'Then, why do you come on a mission from him?'

'It is not a mission from him. It is not a mission from anyone. I was
speaking to Mr. Kenyon, or, rather, Mr. Kenyon was speaking to me, about
a subject which troubled him greatly. It is a subject in which my father
is interested. My father is a member of the London Syndicate, and he
naturally would not desire to have your intended cable message sent to
New York.'

'Really; are you quite sure that you are not speaking less for your
father than for your friend Kenyon?'

Anger burned in Miss Longworth's face, and flashed from her eyes as
she answered:

'You must not speak to me in that way.'

'Excuse me, I shall speak to you in just the way I please. I did not ask
for this conference; you did, and as you have taken it upon yourself to
come into this room uninvited, you will have to put up with what you
hear. Those who interfere with other people's business, as a general
thing, do not have a nice time.'

'I quite appreciated all the possible disagreeableness of coming here,
when I came.'

'I am glad of that, because if you hear anything you do not like, you
will not be disappointed, and will have only yourself to thank for it.'

'I would like to talk about this matter in a spirit of friendliness if I
can. I think nothing is to be attained by speaking in any other way.'

'Very well, then. What excuse have you to give me for coming into my
state-room to talk about business which does not concern you?'

'Miss Brewster, it _does_ concern me--it concerns my father, and that
concerns me. I am, in a measure, my father's private secretary, and am
intimately acquainted with all the business he has in hand. This
particular business is his affair, and therefore mine. That is the reason
I am here.'

'Are you sure?'

'Am I sure of what?'

'Are you sure that what you say is true?'

'I am not in the habit of speaking anything but the truth.'

'Perhaps you flatter yourself that is the case, but it does not deceive
me. You merely come here because Mr. Kenyon is in a muddle about what I
am going to do. Isn't that the reason?'

Miss Longworth saw that her task was going to be even harder than she
had expected.

'Suppose we let all question of motive rest? I have come here--I have
asked your permission to speak on this subject, and you have given me the
permission. Having done so, it seems to me you should hear me out. You
say that I should not be offended----'

'I didn't say so. I do not care a rap whether you are offended or not.'

'You at least said I might hear something that would not be pleasant.
What I wanted to say is this: I have taken the risk of that, and, as you
remark, whether I am offended or not does not matter. Now we will come to
the point----'

'Just before you come to the point, please let me know if Mr. Kenyon told
you he had spoken to me on this subject already.'

'Yes, he told me so.'

'Did he tell you that his friend Wentworth had also had a conversation
with me about it?'

'Yes, he told me that also.'

'Very well, then, if those two men can do nothing to shake my purpose,
how do you expect to do it?'

'That is what I am about to tell you. This is a commercial world, and I
am a commercial man's daughter. I recognise the fact that you are going
to cable this information for the money it brings. Is that not the case?'

'It is partly the case.'

'For what other consideration do you work, then?'

'For the consideration of being known as one of the best newspaper women
in the city of New York. That is the other consideration.'

'I understood you were already known as the most noted newspaper woman in
New York.'

This remark was much more diplomatic than Miss Longworth herself
suspected.

Jennie Brewster looked rather pleased, then she said:

'Oh, I don't know about that; but I intend it shall be so before a
year is past.'

'Very well, you have plenty of time to accomplish your object without
using the information you have obtained on board this ship. Now, as I was
saying, the _New York Argus_ pays you a certain amount for doing this
work. If you will promise not to send the report over to that paper, I
will give you a cheque for double the sum the _Argus_ will pay you,
besides refunding all your expenses twice over.'

'In other words, you ask me to be bribed and refuse to perform my duty to
the paper.'

'It isn't bribery. I merely pay you, or will pay you, double what you
will receive from that paper. I presume your connection with it is purely
commercial. You work for it because you receive a certain amount of
money; if the editor found someone who would do the same work cheaper, he
would at once employ that person, and your services would be no longer
required. Is that not true?'

'Yes, it is true.'

'Very well, then, the question of duty hardly enters into such a compact.
They have sent you on what would be to most people a very difficult
mission. You have succeeded. You have, therefore, in your possession
something to sell. The New York paper will pay you a certain sum in cash
for it. I offer you, for the same article, double the price the _New York
Argus_ will pay you. Is not that a fair offer?'

Jennie Brewster had arisen. She clasped and unclasped her hands
nervously. For a small space of time nothing was said, and Edith
Longworth imagined she had gained her point. The woman standing looked
down at the woman sitting.

'Do you know all the particulars about the attempt to get this
information?' asked Miss Brewster.

'I know some of them. What particulars do you mean?'

'Do you know that a man from the _Argus_ tried to get this information
from Mr. Kenyon and Mr. Wentworth in Canada?'

'Yes; I know about that.'

'Do you know that he stole the reports, and that they were taken from him
before he could use them?'

'Yes.'

'Do you know he offered Mr. Kenyon and Mr. Wentworth double the price the
London Syndicate would have paid them, on condition they gave him a
synopsis of the reports?'

'Yes, I know that also.'

'Do you know that, in doing what he asked, they would not have been
keeping back for a single day the real report from the people who engaged
them? You know all that, do you?'

'Yes; I know all that.'

'Very well, then. Now you ask me to do very much more than Rivers asked
them, because you ask me to keep my paper completely in the dark about
the information I have got. Isn't that so?'

'Yes, you can keep them in the dark until after the report has been given
to the directors; then, of course, you can do what you please with the
information.'

'Ah, but by that time it will be of no value. By that time it will have
been published in the London financial papers. At that time anybody can
get it. Isn't that the case?'

'I suppose so.'

'Now, I want to ask you one other question, Miss--Miss--I don't think you
told me your name.'

'My name is Edith Longworth.'

'Very well, Miss Longworth. I want to ask you one more question. What do
you think of the conduct of Mr. Kenyon and Mr. Wentworth in refusing to
take double what they had been promised for making the report?'

'What do I think of them?' repeated the girl.

'Yes; what do you think of them? You hesitate. You realize that you are
in a corner. You think Mr. Wentworth and Mr. Kenyon did very nobly in
refusing Rivers' offer?'

'Of course I do.'

'So do I. I think they acted rightly, and did as honourable men should
do. Now, when you think that, Miss Longworth, how dare you come and offer
me double, or three times, or four times, the amount my paper gives to me
for getting this information? Do you think that I am any less honourable
than Kenyon or Wentworth? Your offer is an insult to me; nobody but a
woman, and a woman of your class, would have made it. Kenyon wouldn't
have made it. Wentworth wouldn't have made it. You come here to bribe
me. You come here to do exactly what J. K. Rivers tried to do for the
_Argus_ in Canada. You think money will purchase anything--that is the
thought of all your class. Now, I want you to understand that I am a
woman of the people. I was born and brought up in poverty in New York.
You were born and brought up amid luxury in London. I have suffered
privation and hardships that you know nothing of, and, even if you read
about them, you wouldn't understand. You, with the impudence of your
class, think you can come to me and bribe me to betray my employer. I am
here to do a certain thing, and I am going to do that certain thing in
spite of all the money that all the Longworths ever possessed, or ever
will possess. Do I make myself sufficiently plain?'

'Yes, Miss Brewster. I don't think anyone could misunderstand you.'

'Well, I am glad of that, because one can never tell how thickheaded some
people may be.'

'Do you think there is any parallel between your case and Mr.
Wentworth's?'

'Of course I do. We were each sent to do a certain piece of work. We
each did our work. We have both been offered a bribe to cheat our
employers of the fruits of our labour; only in my case it is very much
worse than in Wentworth's, because his employers would not have suffered,
while mine will.'

'This is all very plausible, Miss Brewster, but now allow me to tell you
that what you have done is a most dishonourable thing, and that you are a
disgrace to our common womanhood. You have managed, during a very short
acquaintance, to win the confidence of a man--there is a kind of woman
who knows how to do that: I thank Heaven I am not of that class; I prefer
to belong to the class you have just now been reviling. Some men have an
inherent respect for all women; Mr. Wentworth is apparently one of those,
and, while he was on his guard with a man, he was not on his guard with a
woman. You took advantage of that and you managed to secure certain
information which you knew he would never have given you if he had
thought it was to be published. You stole that information just as
disreputably as that man stole the documents from Mr. Kenyon's pocket.
_You_ talk of your honour and your truth when you did such a contemptible
thing! _You_ prate of unbribeableness, when the only method possible is
adopted of making you do what is right and just and honest! Your conduct
makes me ashamed of being a woman. A thoroughly bad woman I can
understand, but not a woman like you, who trade on the fact that you
_are_ a woman, and that you are pretty, and that you have a pleasing
manner. You use those qualities as a thief or a counterfeiter would use
the peculiar talents God had given him. How dare you pretend for a moment
that your case is similar to Mr. Wentworth's? Mr. Wentworth is an
honourable man, engaged in an honourable business; as for you and your
business, I have no words to express my contempt for both. Picking
pockets is reputable compared with such work.'

Edith Longworth was now standing up, her face flushed and her hands
clenched. She spoke with a vehemence which she very much regretted when
she thought of the circumstance afterwards; but her chagrin and
disappointment at failure, where she had a moment before been sure of
success, overcame her. Her opponent stood before her, angry and pale. At
first Edith Longworth thought she was going to strike her, but if any
such idea passed through the brain of the journalist, she thought better
of it. For a few moments neither spoke, then Jennie Brewster said, in a
voice of unnatural calmness:

'You are quite welcome to your opinion of me, Miss Longworth, and I
presume I am entitled to my opinion of Kenyon and Wentworth. They are
two fools, and you are a third in thinking you can control the actions of
a woman where two young men have failed. Do you think for a moment I
would grant to you, a woman of a class I hate, what I would not grant to
a man like Wentworth? They say there is no fool like an old fool, but it
should be said that there is no fool like a young woman who has had
everything her own way in this world. You are----'

'I shall not stay and listen to your abuse. I wish to have nothing more
to do with you.'

'Oh, yes! you will stay,' cried the other, placing her back against the
door. '_You_ came here at your own pleasure; you will leave at mine. I
will tell you more truth in five minutes than you ever heard in your life
before. I will tell you, in the first place, that my business is quite as
honourable as Kenyon's or Wentworth's. What does Kenyon do but try to get
information about mines which other people are vitally interested in
keeping from him? What does Wentworth do but ferret about among accounts
like a detective trying to find out what other people are endeavouring to
conceal? What is the whole mining business but one vast swindle, whose
worst enemy is the press? No wonder anyone connected with mining fears
publicity. If your father has made a million out of mines, he has made it
simply by swindling unfortunate victims. I do my business my way, and
your two friends do theirs in their way. Of the two, I consider my
vocation much the more upright. Now that you have heard what I have to
say, you may go, and let me tell you that I never wish to see you or
speak with you again.'

'Thank you for your permission to go. I am sure I cordially echo your
wish that we may never meet again. I may say, however, that I am sorry I
spoke to you in the way I did. It is, of course, impossible for you to
look on the matter from my point of view, just as it is impossible for me
to look upon it from yours. Nevertheless, I wish you would forget what I
said, and think over the matter a little more, and if you see your way to
accepting my offer it will be always open to you. Should you forego the
sending of that cablegram, I will willingly pay you three times what the
_New York Argus_ will give you for it. I do not offer that as a bribe; I
merely offer it so that you will not suffer from doing what I believe to
be a just action. It seems to me a great pity that two young men should
have to endure a serious check to their own business advancement because
one of them was foolish enough to confide in a woman in whom he
believed.'

Edith Longworth was young, and therefore scarcely likely to be a mistress
of diplomacy, but she might have known the last sentence she uttered
spoiled the effect of all that had gone before.

'Really, Miss Longworth, I had some little admiration for you when you
blazed out at me in the way you did; but now, when you coolly repeat
your offer of a bribe, adding one-third to it, all my respect for you
vanishes. You may go and tell those who sent you that nothing under
heaven can prevent that cablegram being sent.'

In saying this, however, Miss Brewster somewhat exceeded her knowledge.
Few of us can foretell what may or may not happen under heaven.




CHAPTER XI.


Edith Longworth went to her state-room and there had what women call 'a
good cry' over her failure. Jennie Brewster continued her writing, every
now and then pausing as she thought, with regret, of some sharp thing she
might have said, which did not occur to her at the time of the interview.
Kenyon spent his time in pacing up and down the deck, hoping for the
reappearance of Miss Longworth--an expectation which, for a time at
least, was the hope deferred which maketh the heart sick. Fleming, the
New York politician, kept the smoking-room merry, listening to the
stories he told. He varied the proceedings by frequently asking everybody
to drink with him, an invitation that met with no general refusal. Old
Mr. Longworth dozed most of his time in his steamer chair. Wentworth, who
still bitterly accused himself of having been a fool, talked with no one,
not even his friend Kenyon. All the time, the great steamship kept
forging along through the reasonably calm water just as if nothing had
happened or was going to happen. There had been one day of rain, and one
night and part of a day of storm. Saturday morning broke, and it was
expected that some time in the night Queenstown would be reached. Early
on Saturday morning the clouds looked lowering, as they have a right to
look near Ireland.

Wentworth, the cause of all the worry, gave Kenyon very little assistance
in the matter that troubled his mind. He was in the habit, when the
subject was referred to, of thrusting his hands into his hair, or
plunging them down into his pockets, and breaking out into language which
was as deplorable as it was expressive. The more Kenyon advised him to be
calm, the less Wentworth followed that advice. As a general thing, he
spent most of his time alone in a very gloomy state of mind. On one
occasion when the genial Fleming slapped him on the shoulder, Wentworth,
to his great astonishment, turned fiercely round and cried:

'If you do that again, sir, I'll knock you down.'

Fleming said afterwards that he was 'completely flabbergasted' by
this--whatever that may mean--and he added that the English in general
were a queer race. It is true that he gathered himself together at the
time and, having laughed a little over the remark, said to Wentworth:

'Come and have a drink; then you'll feel better.'

This invitation Wentworth did not even take the trouble to decline, but
thrust his hands in his pockets once more, and turned his back on the
popular New York politician.

Wentworth summed up the situation to John Kenyon when he said:

'There is no use in our talking or thinking any more about it. We can
simply do nothing. I shall take the whole blame on my shoulders. I am
resolved that you shall not suffer from my indiscretion. Now, don't talk
to me any more about it. I want to forget the wretched business, if
possible.'

So thus it came about quite naturally that John Kenyon, who was a good
deal troubled about the matter, took as his confidante Edith
Longworth, who also betrayed the greatest interest in the problem.
Miss Longworth was left all the more alone because her cousin had
taken permanently to the smoking-room. Someone had introduced him to
the fascinating game of poker, and in the practice of this particular
amusement Mr. William Longworth was now spending a good deal of his
surplus cash, as well as his time.

Jennie Brewster was seldom seen on deck. She applied herself assiduously
to the writing of those brilliant articles which appeared later in the
Sunday edition of the _New York Argus_ under the general title of 'Life
at Sea,' and which have more recently been issued in book form. As
everybody is already aware, her sketches of the genial New York
politician, and also of the taciturn, glum Englishman, are considered the
finest things in the little volume. They have been largely copied as
typical examples of American humour.

When Jennie Brewster did appear on deck, she walked alone up and down the
promenade, with a sort of half-defiant look in her eyes as she passed
Kenyon and Edith Longworth, and she generally encountered them together.

On this particularly eventful Saturday morning, Kenyon and Edith had the
deck to themselves. The conversation naturally turned to the subject
which for the last few days had occupied the minds of both.

'Do you know,' said the girl, 'I have been thinking all along that she
will come to me at the last for the money.'

'I am not at all sure about that,' answered Kenyon.

'I thought she would probably keep us on the tenterhooks just as long
as possible, and then at the last moment come and say she would accept
the offer.'

'If she does,' said Kenyon, 'I would not trust her. I would give her to
understand that a cheque would be handed to her when we were certain the
article had not been used.'

'Do you think that would be a safe way to act if she came and said she
would take the money for not sending the cablegram? Don't you think it
would be better to pay her and trust to her honour?'

Kenyon laughed.

'I do not think I would trust much to her honour.'

'Now, do you know, I have a different opinion of her. I feel sure that if
she said she would do a thing, she _would_ do it.'

'I have no such faith,' answered Kenyon. 'I think, on the contrary, that
she is quite capable of asking you for the money and still sending her
telegram.'

'Well, I doubt if she would do so. I think the girl really believes she
is acting rightly, and imagines she has done a creditable action in a
very smart way. If she were not what she calls "honest," she would not
have shown so much temper as she did. Not but that I gave a deplorable
exhibition of temper myself, for which there was really no excuse.'

'I am sure,' said Kenyon warmly, 'you did nothing of the kind. At all
events, I am certain everything you did was perfectly right; and I know
you were completely justified in anything you said.'

'I wish I could think so.'

'I want to ask you one question,' said Kenyon.

But what that question was will never be known. It was never asked; and
when Edith Longworth inquired about it some time later, the question had
entirely gone from Kenyon's mind. The steamship, which was ploughing
along through the waters, suddenly gave a shiver, as if it were shaken by
an earthquake; there were three tremendous bumps, such as a sledge might
make by going suddenly over logs concealed in the snow. Both Kenyon and
Miss Longworth sprang to their feet. There was a low roar of steam, and
they saw a cloud rise amidships, apparently pouring out of every aperture
through which it could escape. Then there was silence. The engines had
stopped, and the vessel heeled distinctly over to the port side. When
Edith Longworth began to realize the situation, she found herself very
close to Kenyon, clasping his arm with both hands.

'What--what is it?' she cried in alarm.

'Something is wrong,' said Kenyon. 'Nothing serious, I hope. Will you
wait here a moment while I go and see?'

'It is stupid of me,' she answered, releasing his arm; 'but I feel
dreadfully frightened.'

'Perhaps you would rather not be left alone.'

'Oh no, it is all over now; but when the first of those terrible shocks
came it seemed to me we had struck a rock.'

'There are no rocks here,' said Kenyon. 'The day is perfectly clear, and
we are evidently not out of our course. Something has gone wrong with the
machinery, I imagine. Just wait a moment, and I will find out.'

As Kenyon rushed towards the companion-way, he met a sailor hurrying in
the other direction.

'What is the matter?' cried Kenyon.

The sailor gave no answer.

On entering the companion-way door, Kenyon found the place full of steam,
and he ran against an officer.

'What is wrong? Is anything the matter?'

'How should I know?' was the answer, very curtly given. 'Please do not
ask any questions. Everything will be attended to.'

This was scant encouragement. People began crowding up the companion-way,
coughing and wheezing in the steam; and soon the deck, that but a moment
before had been almost without an occupant, was crowded with excited
human beings in all states of dress and undress.

'What is wrong?' was the question on every lip, to which, as yet, there
was no answer. The officers who hurried to and fro were mute, or gave
short and unsatisfactory replies to the inquiries which poured in upon
them. People did not pause to reflect that even an officer could hardly
be expected to know off-hand what the cause of the sudden stoppage of the
engine might be. By-and-by the captain appeared, smiling and bland. He
told them there was no danger. Something had gone amiss with the
machinery, exactly what he could not, at the moment, tell; but
there was no necessity for being panic-stricken, everything would
be all right in a short time if they merely remained calm. These,
and a lot of other nautical lies, which are always told on such
occasions, served to calm the fears of the crowd; and by-and-by one
after another went down to their state-rooms on finding the vessel was
not going to sink immediately. They all appeared some time afterward in
more suitable apparel. The steam which had filled the saloon soon
disappeared, leaving the furniture dripping with warm moisture. Finally,
the loud clang of the breakfast-gong sounded as if nothing had happened,
and that did more, perhaps, than anything else to allay the fears of the
passengers. If breakfast was about to be served, then, of course, things
were not serious. Nevertheless, a great many people that morning had a
very poor appetite for the breakfast served to them. The one blessing, as
everybody said, was that the weather kept so fine and the sea so calm. To
those few who knew anything about disasters at sea, the list of the ship
to the port side was a most serious sign. The majority of the passengers,
however, did not notice it. After breakfast people came up on deck. There
was a wonderful avoidance of hurry, alike by officers and sailors. Orders
were given calmly and quietly, and as calmly and quietly obeyed. Officers
were still up on the bridge, although there were no commands to give to
the man at the wheel and no screw turning. The helmsman stood at the
wheel as if he expected at any time the order to turn it port or
starboard. All this absence of rush had a very soothing effect on the
passengers, many of whom wanted only a slight excuse to become
hysterical. As the day wore on, however, a general feeling of security
seemed to have come upon all on board. They one and all congratulated
themselves on the fact that they had behaved in a most exemplary manner
considering the somewhat alarming circumstances. Nevertheless, those who
watched the captain saw that he swept the long line of the horizon
through his glass every now and then with a good deal of anxiety, and
they noticed on looking at the long level line where sea and sky met
that not a sail was visible around the complete circle. Up from the
engine-room came the clank of hammers, and the opinion was general that,
whatever was amiss with the engine, it was capable of being repaired. One
thing had become certain, there was nothing wrong with the shafts. The
damage, whatever it was, had been to the engine alone. All of the
passengers found themselves more or less affected by the peculiar
sensation of the steamer being at rest--the awe-inspiring and helpless
consciousness of complete silence--after the steady throb they had become
so accustomed to all the way across. That night at dinner the captain
took his place at the head of the table, urbane and courteous, as if
nothing unusual had happened; and the people, who, notwithstanding their
outward calmness, were in a state of anxious tension, noticed this with
gratified feelings.

'What is the matter?' asked a passenger of the captain; 'and what is the
extent of the accident?'

The captain looked down the long table.

'I am afraid,' said he, 'that if I went into technical details you would
not understand them. There was a flaw in one of the rods connected with
the engine. That rod broke, and in breaking it damaged other parts of
the machinery. Doubtless you heard the three thuds which it gave before
the engine was stopped. At present it is impossible to tell how long it
will take to repair the damage. However, even if the accident were
serious, we are right in the track of vessels, and there is no danger.'

This was reassuring; but those who lay awake that night heard the
ominous sound of the pumps, and the swishing of water splashing down
into the ocean.




CHAPTER XII.


Most of the passengers awoke next morning with a bewildering feeling of
vague apprehension. The absence of all motion in the ship, the unusual
and intense silence, had a depressing effect. The engines had not yet
started; that at least was evident. Kenyon was one of the first on deck.
He noticed that the pumps were still working at their full speed, and
that the steamer had still the unexplained list to port. Happily, the
weather continued good, so far as the quietness of the sea was concerned.
A slight drizzle of rain had set in, and the horizon was not many miles
from the ship. There would not be much chance of sighting another liner
while such weather continued.

Before Kenyon had been many minutes on deck, Edith Longworth came up the
companion-way. She approached him with a smile on her face.

'Well,' he said, 'you, at least, do not seem to be suffering any anxiety
because of our situation.'

'Really,' she replied, 'I was not thinking of that at all, but about
something else. Can you not guess what it is?'

'No,' he answered hesitatingly. 'What is it?'

'Have you forgotten that this is Sunday morning?'

'Is it? Of course it is. So far as I am concerned, time seemed to stop
when the engines broke down. But I do not understand why Sunday morning
means anything in particular.'

'Don't you? Well, for a person who has been thinking for the last two or
three days very earnestly on one particular subject, I am astonished at
you. Sunday morning and no land in sight! Reflect for a moment.'

Kenyon's face brightened.

'Ah,' he cried, 'I see what you mean now! Miss Brewster's cable message
will not appear in this morning's _New York Argus_.'

'Of course it will not; and don't you see, also, that when we do arrive
you will have an equal chance in the race. If we get in before next
Sunday, your telegram to the London people will go as quickly as her
cable despatch to New York; thus you will be saved the humiliation of
seeing the substance of your report in the London papers before the
directors see the report itself. It is not much, to be sure, but, still,
it puts you on equal terms; while if we had got into Queenstown last
night that would have been impossible.'

Kenyon laughed.

'Well,' he said, 'for such a result the cause is rather tremendous, isn't
it? It is something like burning down the house to roast the pig!'

Shortly after ten o'clock the atmosphere cleared, and showed in the
distance a steamer, westward bound. The vessel evidently belonged to one
of the great ocean lines. The moment it was sighted there fluttered up to
the masthead a number of signal-flags, and people crowded to the side of
the ship to watch the effect on the outgoing vessel. Minute after minute
passed, but there was no response from the other liner. People watched
her with breathless anxiety, as though their fate depended on her
noticing their signals. Of course, everybody thought she must see them,
but still she steamed westward. A cloud of black smoke came out of her
funnel, and then a long dark trail, like the tail of a comet, floated out
behind; but no notice was taken of the fluttering flags at the masthead.
For more than an hour the steamer was in sight. Then she gradually faded
away into the west, and finally disappeared.

This incident had a depressing effect on the passengers of the disabled
ship. Although every officer had maintained there was no danger, yet the
floating away of that steamer seemed somehow to leave them alone; and
people, after gazing toward the west until not a vestige of her remained
in the horizon, went back to their deck-chairs, feeling more despondent
than ever.

Fleming, however, maintained that if people had to drown, it was just as
well to drown jolly as mournful, and so he invited everybody to take a
drink at his expense--a generous offer, taken instant advantage of by all
the smoking-room frequenters.

'My idea is this,' said Fleming, as he sipped the cocktail which was
brought to him, 'if anything happens, let it happen; if nothing happens,
why, then let nothing happen. There is no use worrying about anything,
especially something we cannot help. Here we are on the ocean in a
disabled vessel--very good; we cannot do anything about it, and so long
as the bar remains open, gentlemen, here's to you!'

And with this cheerful philosophy the New York politician swallowed the
liquor he had paid for.

Still the swish of water from the pumps could be heard, but the metallic
clanking of steel on steel no longer came up from the engine-room. This
in itself was ominous to those who knew. It showed that the engineer had
given up all hope of repairing the damage, whatever it was, and the real
cause of the disaster was as much a mystery as ever. Shortly before lunch
it became evident to people on board the ship that something was about to
be done. The sailors undid the fastenings of one of the large boats, and
swung it out on the davits until it hung over the sea.

Gradually rumour took form, and it became known that one of the officers
and certain of the crew were about to make an attempt to reach the coast
of Ireland and telegraph to Queenstown for tugs to bring the steamer in.
The captain still asserted that there was no danger whatever, and it was
only to prevent delay that this expedient was about to be tried.

'Do you know what they are going to do?' cried Edith Longworth, in a
state of great excitement, to John Kenyon.

Kenyon had been walking the deck with Wentworth, who now had gone below.

'I have heard,' said Kenyon, 'that they intend trying to reach the
coast.'

'Exactly. Now, why should you not send a telegram to your people in
London, and have the reports forwarded at once? The chances are that
Miss Brewster will never think of sending her cablegram with the officer
who is going to make the trip; then you will be a clear day or two ahead
of her, and everything will be all right. In fact, when she understands
what has been done, she probably will not send her own message at all.'

'By George!' cried Kenyon, 'that is a good idea. I will see the mate at
once, and find out whether he will take a telegram.'

He went accordingly, and spoke to the mate about sending a message with
him. The officer said that any passenger who wished to send a telegraphic
message would be at liberty to do so. He would take charge of the
telegrams very gladly. Kenyon went down to his state-room and told
Wentworth what was going to be done. For the first time in several days
George Wentworth exhibited something like energy. He went to the steward
and bought the stamps to put on the telegram, while John Kenyon wrote it.

The message was given to the officer, who put it into his inside pocket,
and then Kenyon thought all was safe. But Edith Longworth was not so sure
of that. Jennie Brewster sat in her deck-chair calmly reading her usual
paper-covered novel. She apparently knew nothing of what was going on,
and Edith Longworth, nervous with suppressed excitement, sat near her,
watching her narrowly, while preparations for launching the boat were
being completed. Suddenly, to Edith's horror, the deck-steward appeared,
and in a loud voice cried:

'Ladies and gentlemen, anyone wishing to send telegrams to friends has a
few minutes now to write them. The mate will take them ashore with him,
and will send them from the first office that he reaches. No letters can
be taken, only telegrams.'

Miss Brewster looked up languidly from her book during the first part of
this recital. Then she sprang suddenly to her feet, and threw the book
on the deck.

'Who is it will take the telegrams?' she asked the steward.

'The mate, miss. There he is standing yonder, miss.'

She made her way quickly to that official.

'Will you take a cable despatch to be sent to New York?'

'Yes, miss. Is it a very long one?' he asked.

'Yes, it is a very long one.'

'Well, miss,' was the answer, 'you haven't much time to write it. We
leave now in a very few minutes.'

'It is all written out; I have only to add a few words to it.'

Miss Brewster at once flew to her state-room. The telegram about the mine
was soon before her with the words counted, and the silver and gold that
were to pay for it piled on the table. She resolved to run no risk of
delay by having the message sent 'to collect.' Then she dashed off, as
quickly as she could, a brief and very graphic account of the disaster
which had overtaken the _Caloric_. If this account was slightly
exaggerated, Miss Brewster had no time to tone it down. Picturesque and
dramatic description was what she aimed at. Her pen flew over the paper
with great rapidity, and she looked up every now and then, through her
state-room window, to see dangling from the ropes the boat that was to
make the attempt to reach the Irish coast. As she could thus see how the
preparations for the departure were going forward, she lingered longer
than she might otherwise have done, and added line after line to the
despatch which told of the disaster. At last she saw the men take their
places in the longboat. She hurriedly counted the words in the new
despatch she had written, and quickly from her purse piled the gold that
was necessary to pay for their transmission. Then she sealed the two
despatches in an envelope, put the two piles of gold into one after
rapidly counting them again, cast a quick look up at the still motionless
boat, grasped the gold in one hand, the envelope in the other, and sprang
to her feet; but, as she did so, she gave a shriek and took a step
backwards.

Standing with her back to the door was Edith Longworth. When she had
entered the state-room, Miss Brewster did not know, but her heart beat
wildly as she saw the girl standing silently there, as if she had risen
up through the floor.

'What are you doing here?' she demanded.

'I am here,' said Miss Longworth, 'because I wish to talk with you.'

'Stand aside; I have no time to talk to you just now. I told you I didn't
want to see you again. Stand aside, I tell you.'

'I shall not stand aside.'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean that I shall not stand aside.'

'Then I will ring the bell and have you thrust out of here for your
impudence.'

'You shall not ring the bell,' said Edith calmly, putting her hand over
the white china plaque that held in its centre the black electric button.

'Do you mean to tell me that you intend to keep me from leaving my own
state-room?'

'I mean to tell you exactly that.'

'Do you know that you can be imprisoned for attempting such a thing?'

'I don't care.'

'Stand aside, you vixen, or I will strike you!'

'Do it.'

For a moment the two girls stood there, the one flushed and excited, the
other apparently calm, with her back against the door and her hand over
the electric button. A glance through the window showed Miss Brewster
that the mate had got into the boat, and that they were steadily
lowering away.

'Let me pass, you--you wretch!'

'All in good time,' replied Edith Longworth, whose gaze was also upon the
boat swinging in mid-air.

Jennie Brewster saw at once that, if it came to a hand-to-hand encounter,
she would have no chance whatever against the English girl, who was in
every way her physical superior. She had her envelope in one hand and the
gold in the other. She thrust both of them into her pocket, which, after
some fumbling, she found. Then she raised her voice in one of the
shrillest screams which Edith Longworth had ever heard. As if in answer
to that ear-piercing sound, there rose from the steamer a loud and
ringing cheer. Both glanced up to see where the boat was, but it was not
in sight. Several ropes were dangling down past the porthole. Miss
Brewster sprang up on the sofa, and with her small hands turned round
the screw which held the window closed.

Edith Longworth looked at her without making any attempt to prevent the
unfastening of the window.

Jennie Brewster flung open the heavy brass circle which held the thick
green glass, and again she screamed at the top of her voice, crying
'Help!' and 'Murder!'

The other did not move from her position. In the silence that followed,
the steady splash of oars could be heard, and again a rousing cheer rang
out from those who were left upon the motionless steamer. Edith Longworth
raised herself on tiptoe and looked out of the open window. On the crest
of a wave, five hundred yards away from the vessel, she saw the boat for
a moment appear, showing the white glitter of her six dripping oars; then
it vanished down the other side of the wave into the trough of the sea.

'Now, Miss Brewster', she said, 'you are at liberty to go.'




CHAPTER XIII.


After Edith Longworth left her, Jennie Brewster indulged in a brief spasm
of hysterics. Her common-sense, however, speedily came to her rescue;
and, as she became more calm, she began to wonder why she had not
assaulted the girl who had dared to imprison her. She dimly remembered
that she thought of a fierce onslaught at the time, and she also
recollected that her fear of the boat leaving during the struggle had
stayed her hand. But now that the boat had left she bitterly regretted
her inaction, and grieved unavailingly over the fact that she had
stopped to write the account of the disaster which befell the _Caloric_.
Had she not done so, all might have been well, but her great ambition to
be counted the best-newspaper woman in New York, and to show the editor
that she was equal to any emergency that might arise, had undone her.
While it would have been possible for her to send away one telegram, her
desire to write the second had resulted in her sending none at all.
Although she impugned her own conduct in language that one would not have
expected to have heard from the lips of a millionaire's daughter, her
anger against Edith Longworth became more intense, and a fierce desire
for revenge took possession of the fair correspondent. She resolved that
she would go up on deck and shame this woman before everybody. She would
attract public attention to the affair by tearing Edith Longworth from
her deck-chair, and in her present state of mind she had no doubt of her
strength to do it. With the yearning for vengeance fierce and strong upon
her, the newspaper woman put on her hat and departed for the deck. She
passed up one side and down the other, but her intended victim was not
visible. The rage of Miss Brewster increased when she did not find her
prey where she expected. She had a fear that, when she calmed down, a
different disposition would assert itself, and her revenge would be lost.
In going to and fro along the deck she met Kenyon and Fleming walking
together. Fleming had just that moment come up to Kenyon, who was quietly
pacing the deck alone, and, slapping him on the shoulder, asked him to
have a drink.

'It seems to me,' he said, 'that I never have had the pleasure of
offering you a drink since we came on board this ship. I want to drink
with everybody here, and especially now, when something has happened to
make it worth while.'

'I am very much obliged to you,' said John Kenyon coldly, 'but I never
drink with anybody.'

'What, never touch it at all? Not even beer?'

'Not even beer.'

'Well, I am astonished to hear that. I thought every Englishman drank
beer.'

'There is at least one Englishman who does not.'

'All right, then; no harm done, and no offence given, I hope. I may say,
however, that you miss a lot of fun in this world.'

'I suppose I miss a few headaches also.'

'Oh, not necessarily. I have one great recipe for not having a headache.
You see, this is the philosophy of headaches.' And then, much to John's
chagrin, he linked arms with him and changed his step to suit Kenyon's,
talking all the time as if they were the most intimate friends in the
world. 'I have a sure plan for avoiding a headache. You see, when you
look into the matter, it is this way: The headache only comes when you
are sober. Very well, then. It is as simple as A B C. Never get sober;
that's my plan. I simply keep on, and never get sober, so I have no
headaches. If people who drink would avoid the disagreeable necessity of
ever getting sober, they would be all right. Don't you see what I mean?'

'And how about their brains in the meantime?'

'Oh, their brains are all right. Good liquor sharpens a man's brains
wonderfully. Now, you try it some time. Let me have them mix a cocktail
for you? I tell you, John, a cocktail is one of the finest drinks that
ever was made, and this man at the bar--when I came on board, he thought
he could make a cocktail, but he didn't know even the rudiments--I have
taught him how to do it; and I tell you that secret will be worth a
fortune to him, because if there is anything Americans like, it is to
have their cocktails mixed correctly. There's no one man in all England
can do it, and very few men on the Atlantic service. But I'm gradually
educating them. Been across six times. They pretend to give you American
drinks over in England, but you must know how disappointing they are.'

'I'm sure I don't see how I should know, for I never taste any of them.'

'Ah, true; I had forgotten that. Well, I took this bar-keeper here in
hand, and he knows now how to make a reasonably good cocktail; and, as I
say, that secret will be worth money to him from American passengers.'

John Kenyon was revolving in his mind the problem of how to get rid of
this loquacious and generous individual, when he saw, bearing down upon
them, the natty figure of Miss Jennie Brewster; and he wondered why such
a look of bitter indignation was flashing from her eyes. He thought that
she intended to address the American politician, but he was mistaken. She
came directly at him, and said in an excited tone, with a ring of anger
in it:

'Well, John Kenyon, what do you think of your work?'

'What work?' asked the bewildered man.

'You know very well what work I mean. A fine specimen of a man you are!
Without the courage yourself to prevent my sending that telegram, you
induced your dupe to come down to my state-room and brazenly keep me from
sending it.'

The blank look of utter astonishment upon the face of honest John Kenyon
would have convinced any woman in her senses that he knew nothing at all
of what she was speaking. A dim impression of this, indeed, flashed
across the young woman's heated brain. But before she could speak,
Fleming said:

'Tut, tut, my dear girl! you are talking too loud altogether. Do you want
to attract the attention of everybody on the deck? You mustn't make a
scandal in this way on board ship.'

'Scandal!' she cried. 'We will soon see whether there will be a scandal
or not. Attract the attention of those on deck! That is exactly what I am
going to do, until I show up the villainy of this man you are talking to.
He was the concocter of it, and he knows it. She never had brains enough
to think of it. He was too much of a coward to carry it through himself,
and so he set her to do his dastardly piece of work.'

'Well, well,' said Fleming, 'even if he has done all that, whatever it
is, it will do no good to attract attention to it here on deck. See how
everybody is listening to what you are saying. My dear girl, you are too
angry to talk just now; the best thing you can do is to go down to your
state-room.'

'Who asked you to interfere?' she cried, turning furiously upon him.
'I'll thank you to mind your own business, and let me attend to mine. I
should have thought that you would have found out before this that I am
capable of attending to my own affairs.'

'Certainly, certainly, my dear child,' answered the politician
soothingly; 'I'm sorry I can't get you all to come and have a drink with
me, and talk this matter over quietly. That's the correct way to do
things, not to stand here scolding on the deck, with everybody listening.
Now, if you will quietly discuss the matter with John here, I'm sure
everything will be all right.'

'You don't know what you are talking about,' replied the young lady. 'Do
you know that I had an important despatch to send to the _Argus_, and
that this man's friend, doubtless at his instigation, came into my room
and practically held me prisoner there until the boat had left, so that I
could not send the despatch? Think of the cheek and villainy of that, and
then speak to me of talking wildly!'

An expression of amazement upon Kenyon's face convinced the newspaper
woman, more than all his protestations would have done, that he knew
nothing whatever of the escapade.

'And who kept you from coming out?' asked Fleming.

'It is none of your business,' she replied tartly.

'If you will believe me,' said Kenyon at last, 'I had absolutely no
knowledge of all this; so, you see, there is no use speaking to me about
it. I won't pretend I am sorry, because I am not.'

This added fuel to the flames, and she was about to blaze out again, when
Kenyon, turning on his heel, left her and Fleming standing facing each
other. Then the young woman herself turned and quickly departed, leaving
the bewildered politician entirely alone, so that there was nothing for
him to do but to go into the smoking-room and ask somebody else to drink
with him, which he promptly did.

Miss Brewster made her way to the captain's room and rapped at the door.
On being told to enter, she found that officer seated at his table with
some charts before him, and a haggard look upon his face, which might
have warned her that this was not the proper time to air any personal
grievances.

'Well?' he said briefly as she entered.

'I came to see you, captain,' she began, 'because an outrageous thing has
been done on board this ship, and I desire reparation. What is more, I
will have it!

'What is the "outrageous thing"?' asked the captain.

'I had some despatches to send to New York, to the _New York Argus_, on
whose staff I am.'

'Yes,' said the captain with interest; 'despatches relating to what has
happened to the ship?'

'One of them did, the other did not.'

'Well, I hope,' said the captain, 'you have not given an exaggerated
account of the condition we are in.'

'I have given no account at all, simply because I was prevented from
sending the cablegrams.'

'Ah, indeed,' said the captain, a look of relief coming over his face, in
spite of his efforts to conceal it; 'and pray what prevented you from
sending your cablegrams? The mate would have taken any messages that were
given to him.'

'I know that,' cried the young woman; 'but when I was in my room writing
the last of the despatches, a person who is on board as a passenger
here--Miss Longworth--came into my room and held me prisoner there until
the boat had left the ship.'

The captain arched his eyebrows in surprise.

'My dear madam,' he said, 'you make a very serious charge. Miss Longworth
has crossed several times with me, and I am bound to say that a
better-behaved young lady I never had on board my ship.'

'Extremely well behaved she is!' cried the correspondent angrily, 'she
stood against my door and prevented me from going out. I screamed for
help, but my screams were drowned in the cheers of the passengers when
the boat left.'

'Why did you not ring your bell?'

'I couldn't ring my bell because she prevented me. Besides, if I had
reached the bell, it is not likely anybody would have answered it;
everybody seemed to be bawling after the boat that was leaving.'

'You can hardly blame them for that. A great deal depends on the safety
of that boat. In fact, if you come to think about it, you will see that
whatever grievance you may have, it is, after all, a very trivial one
compared with the burden that weighs on me just now, and I should much
prefer not to have anything to do with disputes between the passengers
until we are out of our present predicament.'

'The predicament has nothing whatever to do with it. I tell you a fact.
I tell you that one of your passengers came and imprisoned me in my
state-room. I come to you for redress. Now, there must be some law on
shipboard that takes the place of ordinary law on land. I make this
demand officially to you. If you decline to hear me, and refuse to
redress my wrong, then I have public opinion, to which I can appeal
through my paper, and perhaps there will also be a chance of obtaining
justice through the law of the land to which I am going.'

'My dear madam,' said the captain calmly, 'you must not use threats to
me. I am not accustomed to be addressed in the tone you have taken upon
yourself to use. Now tell me what it is you wish me to do?'

'It is for you to say what you will do. I am a passenger on board this
ship, and am supposed to be under the protection of its captain. I
therefore tell you I have been forcibly detained in my state-room, and I
demand that the person who did this shall be punished.'

'You say that Miss Longworth is the person who did this?'

'Yes, I do.'

'Now, do you know you make a serious charge against that young lady--a
charge that I find it remarkably difficult to believe? May I ask you what
reason she had for doing what you say she has done?'

'That is a long story. I am quite prepared to show that she tried to
bribe me not to send a despatch, and, finding herself unsuccessful, she
forcibly detained me in my room until too late to send the telegram.'

The captain pondered over what had been said to him.

'Have you any proof of this charge?'

'Proof! What do you mean? Do you doubt my word?'

'I mean exactly what I say. Have you anybody to prove the exceedingly
serious charge you bring?'

'Certainly not. I have no proof. If there had been a witness there, the
thing would not have happened. If I could have summoned help, it would
not have happened. How could I have any proof of such an outrage?'

'Well, do you not see that it is impossible for me to take action on your
unsupported word? Do you not see that, if you take further steps in this
extraordinary affair, Miss Longworth will ask you for proof of what you
state? If she denies acting as you say she did, and you fail to prove
your allegation, it seems to me that you will be in rather a difficult
position. You would be liable to a suit for slander. Just think the
matter over calmly for the rest of the day before you take any further
action upon it, and I would strongly advise you not to mention this to
anyone on board. Then to-morrow, if you are still in the same frame of
mind, come to me.'

Thus dismissed, the young woman left the captain's room, and met Fleming
just outside, who said:

'Look here, Miss Brewster, I want to have a word with you. You were very
curt with me just now.'

'Mr. Fleming, I do not wish to speak to you.'

'Oh, that's all right--that's all right; but let me tell you this: you're
a pretty smart young woman, and you have done me one or two very evil
turns in your life. I have found out all about this affair, and it's one
of the funniest things I ever heard of.'

'Very funny, isn't it?' snapped the young woman.

'Of course it's very funny; but when it appears in full in the opposition
papers to the _Argus_, perhaps you won't see the humour of it--though
everybody else in New York will, that's one consolation.'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean to say, Jennie Brewster, that unless you are a fool, you will
drop this thing. Don't, for Heaven's sake, let anybody know you were
treated by an English girl in the way you were. Take my advice: say no
more about it.'

'And what business is it of yours?'

'It isn't mine at all; that is why I am meddling with it. Aren't you well
enough acquainted with me to know that nothing in the world pleases me so
much as to interfere in other people's business? I have found out all
about the girl who kept you in, and a mighty plucky action it was too. I
have seen that girl on the deck, and I like the cut of her jib. I like
the way she walks. Her independence suits me. She is a girl who wouldn't
give a man any trouble, now, I tell you, if he were lucky enough to win
her. And I am not going to see that girl put to any trouble by you,
understand that!'

'And how are you going to prevent it, may I ask?'

'May you ask? Why, of course you may. I will tell you how I am going
to prevent it. Simply by restraining you from doing another thing in
the matter.'

'If you think you can do that, you are very much mistaken. I am going to
have that girl put in prison, if there is a law in the land.'

'Well, in the first place, we are not on land; and, in the second place,
you are going to do nothing of the kind, because, if you do, I shall go
to the London correspondents of the other New York papers and give the
whole blessed snap away. I'll tell them how the smart and cute Miss Dolly
Dimple, who has bamboozled so many persons in her life, was once caught
in her own trap; and I shall inform them how it took place. And they'll
be glad to get it, you bet! It will make quite interesting reading in the
New York opposition papers some fine Sunday morning--about a column and a
half, say. Won't there be some swearing in the _Argus_ when that appears!
It won't be your losing the despatch you were going to send, but it will
be your utter idiocy in making the thing public, and letting the other
papers on to it. Why, the best thing in the world for you to do, and the
_only_ thing, is to keep as quiet as possible about it. I am astonished
at a girl of your sense, Dolly, making a public fuss like this, when you
should be the very one trying to keep it secret.'

The newspaper correspondent pondered on these words.

'And if I keep quiet about it, will you do the same?'

'Certainly; but you must remember that if ever you attempt any of your
tricks of interviewing on me again, out comes this whole thing. Don't
forget that.'

'I won't,' said Miss Jennie Brewster.

And next morning, when the captain was anxiously awaiting her arrival in
his room, she did not appear.




CHAPTER XIV.


After all, it must be admitted that George Wentworth was a man of
somewhat changeable character. For the last two or three days he had been
moping like one who meditated suicide; now when everyone else was
anxiously wondering what was going to happen to the ship, he suddenly
became the brightest individual on board. For a man to be moody and
distraught while danger was impending was not at all surprising; but for
a man, right in the midst of gloom, to blossom suddenly out into a
general hilarity of manner, was something extraordinary. People thought
it must be a case of brain trouble. They watched the young man with
interest as he walked with a springy step up and down the deck. Every now
and again a bright smile illuminated his face, and then he seemed to be
ashamed that people should notice he was feeling so happy. When he was
alone he had a habit of smiting his thigh and bursting out into a laugh
that was long and low, rather than loud and boisterous. No one was more
astonished at this change than Fleming, the politician. George met him on
deck, and, to the great surprise of that worthy gentleman, smote him on
the back and said:

'My dear sir, I am afraid the other day, when you spoke to me, I answered
a little gruffly. I beg to apologize. Come and have a drink with me.'

'Oh, don't mention it,' said Fleming joyously; 'we all of us have our
little down-turns now and then. Why, I have them myself, when liquor is
bad or scarce! You mightn't believe it, but some days I feel away down in
the mouth. It is true I have a recipe for getting up again, which I
always use. And that reminds me: do you remember what the Governor of
North Carolina said to the Governor of South Carolina?'

'I'm sure I don't know,' said Wentworth; 'you see, I'm not very well
versed in United States politics.'

'Well, there wasn't much politics about his remark. He merely said,
"It's a long time between drinks;" come in and have something with me.
It seems to me you haven't tasted anything in my company since the
voyage began.'

'I believe,' said Wentworth, 'that is a true statement. Let us amend it
as soon as possible, only in this case let me pay for the drinks. I
invited you to drink with me.'

'Not at all, not at all!' cried Fleming; 'not while I'm here. This is my
treat, and it is funny to think that a man should spend a week with
another man without knowing him. Really, you see, I haven't known you
till now.'

And so the two worthy gentlemen disappeared into the smoking-room and
rang the electric bell.

But it was in his own state-room that George Wentworth's jocularity came
out at its best. He would grasp John Kenyon by the shoulder and shake
that solemn man, over whose face a grim smile generally appeared when he
noticed the exuberant jollity of his comrade.

'John,' Wentworth cried, 'why don't you laugh?'

'Well, it seems to me,' replied his comrade, 'that you are doing laughing
enough for us both. It is necessary to have one member of the firm solid
and substantial. I'm trying to keep the average about right. When you
were in the dumps I had to be cheerful for two. Now that you feel so
lively, I take a refuge in melancholy, to rest me after my hard efforts
at cheerfulness.'

'Well, John, it seems to me too good to be true. What a plucky girl she
was to do such a thing! How did she know but that the little vixen had a
revolver with her, and might have shot her?'

'I suppose she didn't think about it at all.'

'Have you seen her since that dramatic incident?'

'Seen whom? Miss Brewster?'

'No, no; I mean Miss Longworth.'

'No, she hasn't appeared yet. I suppose she fears there will be a scene,
and she is anxious to avoid it.'

'Very likely that is the case,' said Wentworth. 'Well, if you do see her,
you can tell her there is no danger. Our genial friend, Fleming, has had
a talk with that newspaper woman, so he tells me, and the way he
describes it is exceedingly picturesque. He has threatened her with
giving away the "snap," as he calls it, to the other New York papers, and
it seems that the only thing on earth Miss Brewster is afraid of is the
opposition press. So she has promised to say nothing more whatever about
the incident.'

'Then, you have been talking with Fleming?'

'Certainly I have; a jovial good fellow he is, too. I have been doing
something more than talking with him; I have been drinking with him.'

'And yet a day or two ago, I understand, you threatened to strike him.'

'A day or two ago, John! It was ages and ages ago. A day or two isn't in
it. That was years and centuries since, as it appears to me. I was an old
man then; now I have become young again, and all on account of the plucky
action of that angel of a girl of yours.'

'Not of mine,' said Kenyon seriously; 'I wish she were.'

'Well, cheer up. Everything will come out right; you see, it always does.
Nothing looked blacker than this matter about the telegram a few days
ago, and see how beautifully it has turned out.'

Kenyon said nothing. He did not desire to discuss the matter even with
his best friend. The two went up on deck together, and took a few turns
along the promenade, during which promenade the eyes of Kenyon were
directed to the occupants of the deckchairs, but he did not see the
person whom he sought. Telling Wentworth he was going below for a moment,
he left him to continue his walk alone, and on reaching the saloon Kenyon
spoke to a stewardess.

'Do you know if Miss Longworth is in her stateroom?'

'Yes, sir, I think she is,' was the answer.

'Will you take this note to her?'

John sat down to wait for an answer. The answer did not come by the hand
of the stewardess. Edith herself timorously glanced into the saloon, and,
seeing Kenyon alone, ventured in. He sprang up to meet her.

'I was afraid,' he said, 'that you had been ill.'

'No, not quite, but almost,' she answered. 'Oh, Mr. Kenyon, I have done
the most terrible thing! You could not imagine that I was so bold and
wicked;' and tears gathered in the eyes of the girl.

Kenyon stretched out his hand to her, and she took it.

'I am afraid to stay here with you,' she said, 'for fear----'

'Oh, I know all about it,' said Kenyon.

'You cannot know about it; you surely do not know what I have done?'

'Yes, I know exactly what you've done; and we all very much admire your
pluck.'

'It hasn't, surely, been the talk of the ship?'

'No, it has not; but Miss Brewster charged me with being an accomplice.'

'And you told her you were not, of course?'

'I couldn't tell her anything, for the simple reason that I hadn't the
faintest idea what she was talking about; but that's how I came to know
what had happened, and I am here to thank you, Miss Longworth, for your
action. I really believe you have saved the sanity of my friend
Wentworth. He is a different man since the incident we are speaking of
occurred.'

'And have you seen Miss Brewster since?'

'Oh yes; as I was telling you, she met me on the deck. Dear me! how
thoughtless of me! I had forgotten you were standing. Won't you sit
down?'

'No, no; I have been in my room so long that I am glad to stand
anywhere.'

'Then, won't you come up on deck with me?'

'Oh, I'm afraid,' she said. 'I am afraid of a public scene; and I am
sure, by the last look I caught in that girl's eyes, she will stop at no
scandal to have her revenge. I am sorry to say that I am too much of a
coward to meet her. Of course, from her point of view I have done her
eternal wrong. Perhaps it was wrong from anybody's point of view.'

'Miss Longworth,' said John Kenyon cordially, 'you need have no fear
whatever of meeting her. She will say nothing.'

'How do you know that?'

'Oh, it is a long story. She went to the captain with her complaint, and
received very little comfort there. I will tell you all about it on deck.
Get a wrap and come with me.'

As Kenyon gave this peremptory order, he realized that he was taking a
liberty he had no right to take, and his face flushed as he wondered if
Edith would resent the familiarity of his tones; but she merely looked up
at him with a bright smile, and said:

'I will do, sir, as you command.'

'No, no,' said Kenyon; 'it was not a command, although it sounded like
one. It was a very humble request; at least, I intended it to be such.'

'Well, I will get my wrap.'

As she left for her state-room, a rousing cheer was heard from on deck.
She stopped, and looked at Kenyon.

'What does that mean?' she asked.

'I do not know,' was the answer. 'Please get your things on and we will
go up and see.'

When they reached the deck they saw everybody at the forward part of the
ship. Just becoming visible in the eastern horizon were three trails of
black smoke, apparently coming towards them.

The word was whispered from one to the other: 'It is the tug-boats. It
is relief.'

Few people on board the steamer knew that their very existence depended
entirely on the good weather. The incessant pumping showed everybody, who
gave a thought to the matter, that the leak had been serious; but as the
subsidence of the vessel was imperceptible to all save experts, no one
but the officers really knew the grave danger they were in. Glad as the
passengers were to see those three boats approach, the one who most
rejoiced was the one who knew everything respecting the disaster and its
effects--the captain.

Edith Longworth and John Kenyon paced the deck together, and did not form
two of the crowd who could not tear themselves away from the front of
the ship, watching the gradually approaching tug boats. Purposely, John
Kenyon brought the girl who was with him past Miss Jennie Brewster, and
although that person glared with a good deal of anger at Edith, who
blushed to her temples with fear and confusion, yet nothing was said; and
Kenyon knew that afterwards his companion would feel easier in her mind
about meeting the woman with whom she had had such a stormy five minutes.
The tug boats speedily took the big steamer in tow, and slowly the four
of them made progress towards Queenstown, it having been resolved to land
all the passengers there, and to tow the disabled vessel to Liverpool, if
an examination of the hull showed such a course to be a safe one. The
passengers bade each other good-bye after they left the tender, and many
that were on board that ship never saw each other again. One at least,
had few regrets and no good-byes to make, but a surprise was in store for
her. Jennie Brewster found a cablegram from New York waiting for her. It
said 'Cable nothing respecting mines. Letter follows.'




CHAPTER XV.


London again! Muddy, drizzly, foggy London, London, with its well filled
omnibuses tearing along the streets, more dangerous than the chariots of
Rome, London, with its bustling thoroughfares, with its traffic blocked
at the corners by the raised white gloved hand of the policeman, London,
with the four wheeled growler piled high with luggage, and the dashing
hansom whirling along, missing the wheels of other vehicles by half an
inch, while its occupant sits serenely smoking, or motioning his
directions to his cabman with an umbrella; London, with its constantly
moving procession of every sort of wheeled carriage, from the four-horsed
coach to the coster barrow. London, London, London, London! the name
seemed to ring in John Kenyon's ears as he walked briskly along the
crowded pavement towards the City. The roar of its busy streets was the
sweetest music in the world to him, as it is to every man who has once
acquired the taste for London. Drink of the fountain of Trevi, and you
will return to Rome. Drink of the roar and the bustle of London, and no
other metropolis in the world, can ever satisfy the city-hunger in you
again. London is London, and John Kenyon loved its very disadvantages as
he strode along the streets.

He called at the office of George Wentworth, took that young man with
him, and together they went to the place where the adjourned meeting of
the London Syndicate was to be held. There were questions to be asked of
the two young men, and the directors couldn't quite see why the reports
had been so suddenly precipitated upon them, before the arrival of the
experts they had sent out. So they had merely read the documents at the
former meeting and adjourned until such time as the two young men could
appear in person. Most of the directors were there, but, though Kenyon
looked anxiously among them, he did not see the face of old Mr.
Longworth. Questions were asked Kenyon about the position of the mines,
about their output, and such other particulars as the directors wished
to know. Then Wentworth underwent a similar examination. He pointed out
the discrepancies which he had found in the accounts. He showed that
there was an evident desire on the part of the owners of the different
mines to make it appear that the properties paid better than they
actually did, and he answered in a clear and satisfactory way all the
questions asked him. The chairman thanked the young men for the evident
care with which they had done their work, and the meeting then went into
a private session to consider what action should be taken respecting the
mines. When the two friends got out of the building, Kenyon said:

'Well, thank goodness that is over and done with. Now, George, what have
you to suggest with reference to the mica-mine?'

'I think,' said Wentworth, 'we had better adjourn to my office and have a
talk over the matter quietly there. Let us go into private session as the
directors have done. I feel rich after having got my cheque, and the vote
of thanks from the chairman; so I will spend a shilling on a hansom and
get there with speed and comfort. Actually, since I have got back to
London, I am spending all my surplus cash on hansoms. They are certainly
the best and cheapest vehicles in the world. Think of what that pirate
charged us for a ride from the hotel to the steamer in New York.'

'I don't like to think of it,' said Kenyon; 'it makes me shudder!'

'Do you know, John, I should not be inconsolable if I never saw the great
city of New York again. London is good enough for me.'

'Oh, I don't know! New York is all right. I confess there are one or two
of her citizens that I do not care much about.'

'Ah,' said Wentworth; then, after a few moments' reflection, he remarked
suddenly, apropos of nothing: 'Do you know, John, I was very nearly in
love with that girl?'

'I thought you were drifting in that direction.'

'Drifting! It wasn't drifting. It was a mad plunge down the rapids, and
it is only lately I have begun to think what a close shave I had of it.
The horror of those days, when I thought that despatch was going to New
York, completely obliterated any other feeling in regard to her. If I had
found she was a hopeless flirt, or something of that kind, who was
trifling with me, I should have been very much shocked, of course, but I
should have thought about my own feelings. Now, the curious thing is that
I never began to think about them till I got to London.'

'Very well, Wentworth; I wouldn't think about them now, if I were you.'

'No, I don't intend to, particularly. The fact that I talk over them with
you shows that the impression was not very deep.'

Wentworth drew a long breath that might have been mistaken for a sigh, if
he had not just before explained how completely free he was from the
thraldom in which Miss Brewster at one time held him.

'Still, she was a very pretty girl, John. You can't deny that.'

'I have no wish to deny it. I simply don't want to think about her at
all.'

'No, and we don't need to, thank goodness. But she _was_ very bright and
clever. Of course you didn't know her as I did. I never before met
anyone who--Well, that's all past and done with. I told her all about our
mica-mine, and she gave me much sage advice.'

Kenyon smiled, but held his peace.

'Oh yes, I know what you are thinking of. I spoke of other mines as well;
still, that was my folly, and not her fault exactly. She imagined she was
doing right, and after all, you know, I think we sometimes don't make
enough allowance for another's point of view.'

Kenyon laughed outright.

'It seems to me you are actually defending her. My remembrance is that
you didn't make much allowance for her point of view when your own point
was that coil of rope in the front of the ship--those days when you
wouldn't speak even to me.'

'I admit it, John. No, I'm not defending her. I have succeeded in
putting her entirely out of my mind--with an effort. How about your own
case, John?'

'My own case! What do you mean?'

'You know very well what I mean.'

'I suppose I do forgive the little bit of affectation, will you? but a
man gets somewhat nervous when such a question is sprung upon him. My own
case is just where we left it at Queenstown.'

'Haven't you seen her since?'

'No.'

'Aren't you going to?'

'I really do not know what I am going to do.'

'John, that young woman has a decided personal interest in you.'

'I wish I were sure of that, or, rather, I wish I were sure of it and
in a position to--But what is the use of talking? I haven't a penny
to my name.'

'No; but if our mine goes through, you soon will have.'

'Yes, but what will it amount to? I never can forget the lofty disdain
with which a certain person spoke of fifty thousand pounds. It sends a
cold chill over me whenever I think of it. Fifty thousand pounds to her
seemed so trivial; to me it was something that might be obtained after
the struggle of a lifetime.'

'Well, I wouldn't let that discourage me too much if I were you; besides,
you see--Oh! here we are. We'll talk about this some other time.'

Having paid the cabman, the two young men went upstairs into Wentworth's
room, where they closed the door, and John drew up a seat by the side of
his friend.

'Now, then,' said Wentworth, 'what have you done about the mine?'

'I have done absolutely nothing. I have been waiting for this conference
with you.'

'Well, my boy, time is the great factor in anything of this sort.'

'Yes, I suppose it is.'

'You see, our option is running along; every day we lose is so much taken
off our chances of success. Have you anything to propose?'

'I'll tell you what I thought of doing. You know young Longworth spoke to
me a good deal about the mine at one time. His cousin introduced me to
him, and she seemed to think he might take some interest in forming the
company. I was to have a talk with you, because Longworth gave it as his
opinion that the amount should be put at two hundred thousand pounds
rather than at fifty thousand pounds.'

Wentworth gave a long whistle.

'Yes, it seems a very large amount; but he claims that if it would pay
ten per cent. on that sum--if we could show that there was a reasonable
chance of its paying so much--we could put it at two hundred thousand.'

'Well, that looks reasonable. What else did he say?'

'He did not say very much more about it, because I told him I should have
to consult you.'

'And why didn't you? On board ship there was one of the best
opportunities we could have had of having a talk with him. In fact, the
whole matter might perhaps have been arranged there.'

'Oh, well, you know, I couldn't talk to you about it, because a certain
circumstance arose, and you spent your time very much in the forward
part of the steamer, sitting on a coil of rope and cursing the universe
generally and yourself in particular'.

'Ah, yes, I remember, of course--yes. Very well, then, you have not seen
young Longworth since, have you?'

'No, I have not.'

'Wouldn't the old gentleman go in for it?'

'His daughter seemed to think he would not, because the amount was
too small.'

'Why couldn't he be got to go into it entirely by himself? If we put the
price up to one hundred thousand pounds or two hundred thousand pounds,
that ought to be large enough for him, if he were playing a lone hand.'

'Well, you see, I don't suppose they thought of going in for it at that,
except as a matter of speculation. Of course, if they intended to buy
some shares, it is not likely they would propose to raise the price from
fifty thousand pounds to two hundred thousand pounds. Young Longworth
spoke of dividing the profit. He claimed that whatever we made on fifty
thousand pounds would be too small to be divided into three. I told him,
of course, that you were my partner in this, and that is why he proposed
the price should be made two hundred thousand pounds.'

'I suppose he seemed indifferent on the question whether it should pay a
dividend on that amount of money or not?'

'He didn't mention that particularly--at least, he did not dwell upon it.
He asked if it would pay a dividend on two hundred thousand, and I told
him I thought it would pay ten per cent. if rightly managed; then he said
of course that was its price, and we should be great fools to float it at
fifty thousand pounds when it was really worth two hundred thousand.'

Wentworth pondered for a few minutes on this, tapping his pencil on the
desk and knitting his brow.

'It seems an awful jump, from fifty thousand pounds to two hundred
thousand pounds, doesn't it, John?'

'Yes, it does; it has a certain look of swindling about it. But what a
glorious thing it would be if it could be done, and if it would pay the
right percentage when we got the scheme working!'

'Of course I wouldn't be connected, nor you either, with anything that
was bogus.'

'Certainly not. I wouldn't think for a moment of inflating it if I were
not positive the property would stand it. I have been making, and have
here in my pocket, an elaborate array of figures which will show
approximately what the mine will yield, and I am quite convinced that it
will pay at least ten per cent., and possible twelve or fifteen.'

'Well, nobody wants a better percentage on their money. Have you the
figures with you?'

'Yes, here they are.'

'Very well, you had better leave them with me, and I will go over them as
critically as if they were the figures of somebody I was deeply
suspicious of, I hope they will hold water; but if they do not, I will
point out to you where the discrepancies are.'

'But, you see, George, it is more a question of facts than of figures. I
believe the whole mountain is made of the mineral which is so valuable,
but I take only about an eighth of it as being possible to get out, which
seems to me a very moderate estimate.'

'Yes, but how much demand is there for it? That is the real question. The
thing may be valuable enough, but if there is only a limited demand--that
is to say, if we have ten times the material that the world needs--the
other nine parts are comparatively valueless.'

'That is true.'

'Do you know how many establishments there are in the world that use
this mineral?'

'There are a great many in England, and also in the United States.'

'And how about the duty on it in the United States?'

'Ah, that I do not know.'

'Well, we must find that out. Just write down here what it is used for;
then I shall try to get some information about the factories that require
it, and also what quantities they need in a year. We shall have to get
all these facts and figures to lay before the people who are going to
invest, because, as I understand it, the great point we make is not on
the mica, but on the other mineral.'

'Exactly.'

'Very well, then, you leave me what you know already about it, and I will
try to supplement your informati

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