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Title: The Bronze Hand
Date of first publication: 1925
Author: Carolyn Wells
Date first posted: August 5, 2014
Date last updated: August 5, 2014
Faded Page eBook #20140808

This eBook was produced by: Mardi Desjardins, Ron Tolkien
& the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net





                            THE BRONZE HAND




                           _CAROLYN WELLS'_

  _Baffling detective stories, in which Fleming Stone,
  the great American Detective, displays his remarkable
  ingenuity for unravelling mysteries_

                          THE BRONZE HAND
                          THE DAUGHTER OF THE HOUSE
                          PRILLILGIRL
                          ANYTHING BUT THE TRUTH
                          THE FURTHEST FURY
                          SPOOKY HOLLOW
                          FEATHERS LEFT AROUND
                          THE MYSTERY GIRL
                          THE MYSTERY OF THE
                            SYCAMORE
                          RASPBERRY JAM
                          THE DIAMOND PIN
                          VICKY VAN
                          THE MARK OF CAIN
                          THE CURVED BLADES
                          THE WHITE ALLEY
                          ANYBODY BUT ANNE
                          THE MAXWELL MYSTERY
                          A CHAIN OF EVIDENCE
                          THE CLUE
                          THE GOLD BAG

                          PTOMAINE STREET

                 A Rollicking Parody on a Famous Book




                            THE BRONZE HAND

                         A FLEMING STONE STORY

                                  BY

                             CAROLYN WELLS

                        _Author of "Vicky Van"_
                   "The Daughter of the House", etc.

  [Illustration: printer logo ]

                        PHILADELPHIA AND LONDON

                       J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY

                                 1926




            COPYRIGHT, 1925, BY THE FRANK A. MUNSEY COMPANY
             COPYRIGHT, 1926, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY




                  PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
                    AT THE WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS
                        PHILADELPHIA, U. S. A.




                           TO MY DEAR FRIEND

                              JESSIE FORD




                               CONTENTS


 CHAPTER                                                           PAGE
      I. THE PINNACLE                                                  9

     II. THE PASSENGERS                                               27

    III. THE YOUNGER GENERATION                                       45

     IV. THE FOURTH OF JULY                                           63

      V. THE MYSTERY                                                  80

     VI. THE GLOVES                                                   98

    VII. THE JEWELER'S BILL                                          116

   VIII. THE DRESSING CASE                                           134

     IX. THE TREASURE HUNT                                           152

      X. PLANTED?                                                    169

     XI. THE JEWELS                                                  187

    XII. STANHOPE                                                    204

   XIII. MASON, THE FRIENDLY                                         221

    XIV. THE SEARCH                                                  238

     XV. THE ANNOUNCEMENT                                            254

    XVI. ENTER FLEMING STONE                                         270

   XVII. MAISIE IN DANGER                                            287

  XVIII. THE MAN IN THE LIBRARY                                      304




                            THE BRONZE HAND




                               CHAPTER I

                             THE PINNACLE


Once upon a time there were four men--all bad. That is, they were each
bad, but none was entirely bad. Nobody is.

The four were closely associated in their interests and were of varying
types and varying degrees of badness.

One was the Cat's-paw; one was the Brutal Ruffian; one was the Arch
Villain behind it all; and one was the Judas Iscariot, who carried the
bag, and who betrayed the whole bunch.

The good in each was more or less discernible. One was awfully kind to
his mother, who never had heard of his badness, and wouldn't believe it
if she had. One was generous minded and lavish of gifts. No one ever
appealed to him for material help in vain. One was champion of the
downtrodden, and always sided with and assisted the under dog in any
fight. And one--well, he made it a point of honor always to return a
borrowed book. Perhaps his good trait was the most unusual of all.

One was an engaging-looking chap, with deep-set eyes and an irradiating
smile. One was plain, but of a strong-featured, though immobile
countenance that betokened an indomitable will. One was of fine,
ascetic features, which belied his real nature and served as a mask.
And one was of nondescript appearance, as most men are.

One had been a fairly well known football player. One had been a Civil
Engineer, and was still civil. One was secretly superstitious. And
one was addicted to Cross Word Puzzles, Bridge, Chess and Detective
Stories, which addictions usually flock together.

The four men figure in this story, also some other men and a few women,
who will appear in due course.

Many years ago Kipling wrote:

    "The Liner she's a Lady, an' she never
       looks nor 'eeds."

and perhaps the most patrician Lady that ever rode the waves was the
liner _Pinnacle_ as she left her New York wharf, one summer afternoon,
bound for Liverpool.

Without looking nor 'eeding, she steamed majestically down the lane of
the Hudson, and out to sea.

Many of her passengers, after screeching themselves hoarse with their
goodby to friends on the pier, stayed on deck to watch the fading away
of the skyscrapers along the Manhattan skyline.

The _Pinnacle_, as befitted her name, was the last word in steamships.
She was, in truth, the very lap of luxury, and the First Cabin
passengers, as they crossed her gangplank, represented, perhaps, enough
gold to sink the ship.

As was also fitting, Nature had provided a perfect day for the sailing.

Although it was the first day of July, June seemed still to linger, and
the blue of sea and sky was gilded by a summer sun, which obligingly
tempered its rays by disappearing now and then, behind puffy white
clouds.

A delicious breeze added itself to the weather record, and, as an old
poet has it,

    "All things were teeming with life and with light."

After the Liberty Statue was passed, the Deck Steward was made suddenly
busy explaining why he had assigned to insistent passengers chairs that
had been long ago engaged by others.

But the Deck Steward was a pleasant sort, who had a beaming smile and a
placating way with him that let him get by with most of his concessions
to bribery and corruption.

By tea time, everybody's chair was labelled and most of the recipient
sex had gone to their cabins to examine their flowers and gifts, while
the men looked up acquaintances and proffered cigars.

But the call of the tea brought many out to their deck chairs and
travelling companions gossiped and compared notes.

"Cox is on board," said Amy Camper to her husband, as she balanced a
tray on her knees and poured tea into two cups.

"Yes, I saw him. Oily Oscar is in fine fettle."

"Always is. He seems to be alone."

"I believe he has a secretary or satellite of some sort. I shan't
trouble him, anyway. I say, Amy, Lily Gibbs is with us."

"Oh, Lord! Can I never escape that woman? Well, she'll attach herself
to Oscar Cox's train as soon as may be."

"She'll do that. Has, in fact--or, at least, her deck chair is directly
in front of his. Look."

Amy Camper dutifully looked, and saw Oscar Cox, the Oil magnate, in a
chair in the back row of all, while the sprightly Miss Gibbs was in the
next row ahead.

It was Saturday afternoon, and after their tea, all felt relaxed and
affable, and the seated ones watched the walkers as they strode by, and
in return the walkers discussed their indolent neighbors.

Two young men paced round and round the deck.

They were Pollard Nash and Harold Mallory, and they had known one
another just twenty minutes.

Somebody had told one of them to look up the other, and the result was
an immediate and mutual liking.

"I wonder who that girl is," said Nash, as they passed a quiet figure
in quiet, smart garb, who was looking dreamily out to sea.

"That's the fourth girl you've wondered about," remarked Mallory.
"You're a bit of a wonderer, Nash."

"Yes, I'm always at it. Born wondering, I think. But that girl puts it
over all the rest. Princess in disguise, I take it."

"Not very well disguised, then, for she has all the aloofness and
disdain commonly ascribed to royalty."

"Well, we can't find out until we can manage to get a proper
introduction. That's the worst of these smashing big boats. Everybody
is _noli me tangere_. I like the old-fashioned little tubs, where you
can scrape acquaintance if you want to."

"They're more sociable. But I like better the reserve and exclusiveness
of these. Who wants all sorts of people bumping into one, with rowdy
greetings and all that?"

"Hello, there's Cox, the oil man. Know him?"

"No, do you?"

"I don't. But I shall before long. He's a chap I'd like to talk to."

"Why don't you just tell him so? He's looking bored and probably
lonely."

"He'd pitch me overboard."

"Maybe not. I dare you to try it. I'll stand by, to catch you as you go
over the rail."

Egged on by Mallory's chaff, Nash paused near the chair of the
millionaire.

"Mr. Cox, isn't it?" he said, in careless, affable tone.

"Yes," said Oscar Cox. "Are we acquainted?"

"Will be, in a minute," said the imperturbable Nash. "I'm Pollard Nash,
and this is my new-found friend, Mallory. You see, Mr. Cox, I could get
dozens of people on board to introduce us--but what's the use?"

Nash was the sort of blue-eyed person whom it is almost impossible
to treat coolly. His manner radiated cordiality of a pleasant,
disinterested kind and nine out of ten would have been amiably disposed
toward him.

Moreover, Oscar Cox was in the best of humors. He had recently achieved
something he inordinately desired, he was off for a long holiday, and
he had left behind all his business cares and anxieties. His last
few weeks had been strenuous, even dangerous, but they were past, and
now, at sea, with every dispute settled, every quandary straightened
out, and every danger passed, the great man was at peace with himself
mentally, morally and physically.

This explained why he chuckled amusedly at Nash's boldness, instead of
swearing at him to get out.

"That's so," he returned, smiling at the two men in front of him.
"Let's go to the smoking room, and see what we can do in the way of
cementing an acquaintance--perhaps, a friendship."

As he rose from his chair, he proved to be younger than they had
thought him, for his white hair was misleading. As a matter of fact,
Oscar Cox was just fifty, and his whole physique denoted that age, but
his white hair, though abundant and crisply curly, made him seem older.

He was enormously wealthy, and though there were those who whispered
"Profiteer," yet his friends, and he had many, rated him as merely a
shrewd and clever business promoter.

His manners were charming, except when it suited his purpose to turn
ugly, and in that rôle, too, he was well versed.

His clothes were irreproachable and his whole air that of a man who was
at home in any situation.

The short conversation among the three had been avidly listened to by
the lady who sat in front of Cox, the quick-witted and busy-minded Miss
Gibbs.

"Come back soon, Mr. Cox," she called out, and he returned to her
merely a smiling nod.

"Damned nuisance," he remarked, as they stepped into the companion way.
"Some women ought to be thrown overboard."

"She seems objectionable," said Mallory, who had noted the eager face
of the spinster. "But there are delightful looking people on board,
quite a few I'd like to know."

"Easily managed," Cox assured him. "What I can't arrange for you, the
Captain will. But I'll put you in with a few. The Campers are good
sports--young married people, and they'll know everybody inside of
twenty-four hours. Be at the dance in the lounge tonight, and they'll
do the rest."

"We'll surely be there," Nash declared. "Travelling alone, Mr. Cox?"

"Yes; except for my Guardian Angel, a misbegotten freak who looks after
my belongings. Name of Hudder, and stupider than his name. You chaps
alone?"

"Yep," responded Mallory. "I'm on a short but well-earned vacation, and
my new-found friend here, is on a longer one, but not so well earned."

"A lot you know about it," Nash smiled. "But as half an hour ago you
didn't know me at all, I'll admit that you read me fairly well."

"I do. I'll bet your intimates call you Polly."

"That, of course," Cox put in. "How could they help it? A man named
Pollard invites that nickname. What's yours, Mr. Mallory?"

"Hal Mall, as naturally as Polly's. And I know yours, sir. You're Oily
Oscar."

"Yes, but thank goodness the adjective refers to material oil, and not
to any traits of my character."

"I can well believe that," and Mallory smiled quickly. For whatever
were Cox's faults or virtues, he was far removed from the type of man
known as oily.

Straightforward, almost blunt in his speech, abrupt in his statements,
and positive in his decisions, Oscar Cox was never guilty of soft soap
or palaver.

And he was a good story teller. Not a _raconteur_, that word connotes
a long-winded, self-conceited bore, but a quick, graphic talker whose
tales had point, pith and brevity.

As the talk drifted to far-off countries, he told of the brave exploits
of his nephew and namesake.

"Young Oscar Cox," he said, "is fearless and often foolishly daring.
He's hunting big game now, in South America somewhere. That is, if the
Big Game hasn't hunted him. He's on a pretty stiff expedition, and I
hope to goodness he'll get home alive."

Further details of the youth's intrepidity were related, and all were
amazed when the first bugle call warned of the approaching dinner hour.

Polly Nash and Hal Mall secured a table to themselves in the elaborate
Restaurant, and were not surprised to see Cox alone at a table across
the room.

And as they gazed with interest at the incoming stream of passengers,
they observed some few they already knew, and many others they would
like to know.

"Good dancer, are you, Hal?" Nash inquired.

"Best in the world."

"Except myself. Bridge shark?"

"Not in the first rank, but a sound, reliable game."

"Good. I see us the life and soul of the party after a day or two. Lots
of pretty girls about, but not so very many captivating young men."

"I'm keen for the outdoors. Deck sports mean more to me than saloon
Jazz. I say, there's the google-eyed spinster. Rather more odious in
evening togs, isn't she?"

"Well, yes," and Nash looked critically at the complacent Miss Gibbs,
resplendent in a black chiffon wisp, precariously held up by a string
of jet beads over one shoulder. "But, I think, Mall, I don't disdain
the lady. She looks to me brainy, perceptive and responsive."

"Some diagnosis at a first glance! All right, you can have her. Me for
the mysterious princess. She's a dream tonight."

Nash turned quickly to see the girl he had noticed on deck coming into
the room alone.

Though very young, not more than twenty-one, he judged, she had poise
and _savoir faire_ that a real princess might have envied. But it was
the self-respect and self-reliance of an American girl, a girl brought
up in the best of American ways and means.

She wore a frock of pale, flowered chiffon, daintily short, and with
pleasantly rounded neck, a string of beautiful pearls her only ornament.

It was a contrast to the jingling beads and multiple bracelets of
most of the women present, but the gown bespoke Paris and the pearls
announced themselves as real, while the face of the girl herself was
so naively pleased and so frankly entertained by the scene before her,
that she easily held all eyes.

With no trace of self-consciousness she walked part way across the
room, and pausing at a small table, spoke a few words to the hovering
head waiter.

Obsequiously he placed her chair, and flourished about his necessary
duties.

Polly Nash gazed in silent admiration.

Then, for he was a devotee of the Gilbert and Sullivan operas, he
quoted:

    "The maid was Beauty's fairest Queen,
       With golden tresses,
       Like a real Princess's,"

"They're not golden," Mallory corrected him.

"Well, they're a goldy-brown, a sort of burnished gold--tarnished gold,
old gold, if you like. Any way they look gold to me."

"You're infatuated, adoration at first sight."

"Yes, as the moth for the star. You're infatuated, too. Only you think
it's wiser not to show it."

"What I like best about her, is her air of enjoyment. She seems not
to feel her loneliness, she's all wrapped up in interest in her
surroundings. Why do you suppose she's alone?"

"Duenna seasick, probably. I wonder who she is."

"We'll find out this evening. I shall dance with her first. The Captain
will smooth the way for me."

"All right," Nash's gaze had wandered and his attention, too. "By Jove,
Mallory, there's Trent--Max Trent!"

"Who's he? A celebrity?"

"Not ostensibly. But he's one of the finest writers in the world. He
writes detective stories, but he writes literature, too."

"You mean his stories are literature? That's gilding refined gold and
painting the lily. A good detective yarn doesn't need to be literature.
In fact, fine writing detracts from its strength."

"Who's talking about fine writing? His books are top of the heap--."

"The detective story heap? Not much of an eminence."

"Oh, all right. That's the way everybody talks who doesn't care
for sleuth stories. I'd rather meet that man than all your dancing
princesses or oily eminence."

"Well, you'll probably be able to manage it. The Captain can surely
compass that."

"Maybe and maybe not. Authors are an exclusive bunch."

Dinner over, nearly everybody sauntered across to the spacious and
spectacular Saloon, where a fine orchestra was already gladdening the
ears of music lovers.

The middle of the great room was a dancing floor, while round the
borders were tables and chairs for those who wanted them.

Soon it was like an informal At Home Dance. Introductions, if deserved
were readily obtained. Acquaintances were made and the correctly-garbed
men and beautifully-gowned women filled the dance floor with a
brilliant, swaying, smiling crowd that made a fascinating picture for
the onlookers.

Pollard Nash achieved his heart's desire with no trouble at all. For
when the Captain presented him to the author, Max Trent, that genius
received the stranger most affably and seemed all for a chat.

Mallory, though, was not so successful. With all the good will in the
world, Captain Van Winkle was not able to bring about an introduction
to the Princess-like girl.

"She is a Miss Forman," the Captain said. "She is travelling alone, and
desires to make no acquaintances, except such as she may choose for
herself."

"Who is she?" asked the disappointed Mallory. "Why is she alone?"

"Mercy on us, I don't know! She confided to me nothing, except her
passport information. But she is, I should say, quite able to take care
of herself. If not, she'll have me to look after her. Though, I've seen
no necessity as yet."

"Oh, all right. Well, introduce me to the siren in black over there
will you? Perhaps she'll dance with me."

The Captain stared at him.

"You go in for extremes, don't you?" he said, smiling. "Miss Forman is
easily the ship's beauty, while Miss Gibbs--."

"Yes, she looks like a cook," said Mallory, pleasantly, "but she's my
choice."

He didn't elucidate further that he had a notion Miss Gibbs was the
sort to know everybody on board in the shortest possible time. And that
with her as a friend at court, he might reach the princess later on.

Lily Gibbs smiled with pleasure at the advent of this most presentable
young man, and in a flutter of flattered delight she danced with him.

They circled the dance floor, and _en route_, he gained much gossipy
information concerning the passengers.

Miss Gibbs had industriously made hay during the few hours of sunshine
already elapsed, and she was more than willing to retail her knowledge.

And later, as they discussed some light refreshment, they indulged in a
veritable orgy of tattle and speculation about everybody on board.

"The Campers are a good sort," the oracle revealed. "Owen is athletic
and all that, but he has brains, too. Amy is a dear, but she bosses him
terribly. She's five years older than he is--but they're happy enough,
as things go. The man who just passed is Sherman Mason, a New York
clubman."

"That his wife with him?"

"Oh, my, no! He's a bachelor, and scorns women, except to flirt with
now and then. He loves dancing."

Impatient of these descriptions of people who didn't interest him,
Mallory took a plunge.

"Who's the quiet little girl sitting over by the blue-curtained alcove?"

Miss Gibbs gave him a quick glance.

"Got around to it, have you? I knew you were dying to ask that."

"Why not? She's one of the prettiest girls on board."

"Oh, do you think so? Why, these two coming toward us now can beat her
all to pieces for looks!"

The girls mentioned were of a dashing type, and wore stunning dance
frocks of ultra fashion and bizarre design.

"Of course," he returned smiling, "if you admire that style, you
wouldn't care for the demure little piece."

"She isn't so terribly demure. That's Maisie Forman, and she's as
independent as they come. She won't meet anybody except those she picks
out herself." Miss Gibbs looked a little chagrined. "She hasn't picked
me out."

"Nor me," and Mallory smiled in sympathy. "Let's make a bargain. If
either of us should get to know her, agree to present the other. How's
that?"

"A little one-sided--" but Miss Gibbs didn't say which side she meant.
"However, I'll agree to that," and she gave her hand on it.

"Good hunting?" Hal Mallory asked of Pollard Nash, as they ran across
each other in the smoking room just before turning in.

"Fine," Nash replied. "Had a long hobnob with Trent. He's great! Then
Oily Cox joined us, and he told stories and Trent did, too, and soon
there was a whole peanut gallery listening in. What's your report?"

"Failure. That is, so far. I may meet her later on, but it's a bit
doubtful."

"Who? Meet whom?"

"Why, the Princess we saw in the dining room. By the way, her name is
Forman--Maisie Forman."

"Well, why didn't you get to know her?"

"She's too exclusive. But I learned about her from the Gibbs charmer."

"Oh, yes, the woman with her eye on Cox. By the way, Mallory, Cox told
some yarns about his nephew, the one named after him, you know. And, he
made him out a financier in Chicago!"

"Well?"

"Well, don't you remember, this afternoon, he said the chap was a big
game hunter and was now in South America."

"But a business man can hunt game in his off hours."

"I know, but Oily Cox made it out tonight that his namesake nephew is
even now on his job in Chicago. Devotes his whole life and energy to
it, and is rapidly becoming a power in the stock market out West."

"Cox is nutty, I expect--."

"No, anything but that. What did Miss Gibbs say about him?"

"Nothing. We scarcely mentioned him. But I tell you, that little dame
has the low-down on everybody on this tub. She dances as if she had her
rubbers on, but she's nobody's fool!"

"No?"

"No."




                              CHAPTER II

                            THE PASSENGERS


Sunday morning is Sunday morning the world over.

Whatever the situation, wherever the locality, whoever the people,
Sunday morning has an atmosphere all its own, inevitable and
unmistakable.

Entirely unsectarian, it is no respecter of persons, and everyone must
feel its influence to a greater or less degree.

But it is not unpleasant. It is rather like a benediction, with its
calm, peaceful outward effects and its undercurrents of cleanliness and
Godliness.

And Sunday morning on the _Pinnacle_ was rather like that Lotus land
some poet wrote about, where it is always Saturday afternoon. The
sunshine was gently golden, the air downy soft and the blue waves were
mountains that skipped like little lambs.

The imminence of bouillon and sandwiches, like a magnet, drew to the
deck hungry passengers who had eaten nothing since breakfast.

They came, not single spies, but in battalions, well-dressed,
well-groomed, well-mannered, and in more or less audibly happy frame of
mind.

Lily Gibbs was early in her chair, alive and alert to catch any
sidelights on her neighbors.

The neighbors, mostly wrapped up in their own affairs and their own
companions, bustled about her, unseeing, as the far flung line of rugs
and pillows settled into place.

Mallory and Nash were doing their daily hundred rounds of the deck,
pausing often to pass the time of Sunday morning.

Earlier, they had gone into conference with Garson, the Deck Steward,
with the result that they now boasted chairs right in the heart of
things. That is, in the immediate vicinity of the chairs of Oscar Cox
and several other men of financial importance, the Campers and several
other citizens of social importance, and a sprinkling of the sublimely
important Younger Generation.

Two of these latter pounced on the young men, as they came toward their
chairs, and claimed them for their own.

"You can be Gladys' sheik, Mr. Mallory," Sally Barnes twinkled at him,
"and Mr. Nash shall be mine. Now, be nice and possessive, won't you?"

The two men spoke this language fluently, and responded in kind, as
they took the chairs the girls ordained.

The quartette had met before, and failing to make any headway in
getting acquainted with the exclusive Miss Forman, Mallory had advised
attaching themselves to these pretty little flappers.

The flappers' mothers sat near by, smiling indulgently at the
foolishness of their adored offspring.

Then Oscar Cox appeared on deck.

The audience didn't rise, but they paid him the homage of turning
sidewise in their chairs and craning their necks and staring hard as he
made his triumphal entry.

Arrayed in white and looking more like a yachtsman on his own craft
than a mere passenger, he was followed by a queer looking little man,
who had factotum written large all over him.

Unheeding all else, he bore down on Cox's chair, spread a rug,
propelled his master into it, folded it over his legs with the deft
speed of an envelope machine, and then, from a bag he carried, whisked
out a leather pillow, some magazines, a pair of blue spectacles and a
field glass.

He hung the bag on the chair arm and after a few whispered words and a
nod from Cox, he folded his wings like an Arab and silently disappeared.

"How thrilling!" exclaimed Sally Barnes, "Mr. Cox has a minion, a
henchman, a--."

"A vassal, a serf at his side," supplemented Mallory. "Well, he's a big
man, you know--a man of affairs.

"Love affairs?" asked Gladys, hopefully.

"I don't know about that. I only know him superficially as yet. But
I'll find out for you--."

"I'll tell her," broke in Cox himself, who was well within earshot.
"Yes, Little Girl, I'm keen on love affairs. Any takers?"

Cox had a way with him, and his speech brought only beaming smiles from
the watchful mothers of the girls.

"Don't believe my white hair," Cox went on, gayly. "It turned white in
a single night, once when I was frightened 'most to death. Why, I have
a nephew, my namesake, by the way, who is years younger than I am, and
looks older. But then, he's a parson--a clergyman in Boston."

"I thought he was in South America," Nash said, suddenly.

"My nephew, Oscar Cox? I tell you he's a Unitarian minister, in Boston.
Been there, in the same church, five or six years. His people love him.
I'm not crazy about the lad myself. He's too mild for my liking. But he
found Hudder for me--so I owe him a debt of gratitude. Notice Hudder?
My all-round caretaker? Queer looking, but capable--oh, one hundred per
cent. capable."

"Fascinating devil," commented Sally Barnes, casually. "Is he a
foreigner?"

"Well, he had some Spanish and Italian forebears. But I'm often
uncertain whether he's a devil or a dummkopf. He has traits of both.
I never budge without him, he's as necessary as a toothbrush. Well,
who's for shuffleboard or quoits, or what have you on the Sport Deck."

Kicking away Hudder's careful foldings, Cox jumped to his feet. In a
moment, the watchful satellite was at his side, moving an empty chair
or two, easing his master out into the open, and gathering up the
fallen magazines.

Impatiently shaking off the hovering helper, Cox picked up a crowd of
young people with his eyes, and strode off along the deck.

Pausing to look back for the others, he stood, with his back against
the rail, his big, well-cut face complacent and proud; his sharp gray
eyes darting here and there in general anticipation.

About two rows back, Maisie Forman was lying back in her chair,
while beside her Max Trent sat upright, eagerly talking on some
all-engrossing subject.

The all-seeing eyes of Oily Oscar took them in and then darted on to
their neighbors, much as a jerky searchlight pursues its course.

"Isn't he astonishing!" murmured Maisie, as the magnate passed on, and
his merry train came trooping after.

"Yes," and Trent smiled. "He looks like an event all ready to
transpire. Or," he added, "like a spider with a lot of flies."

"Why, you don't know anything bad about him, do you?" the girl asked.

"No, I don't know him at all, do you?"

"Mercy, no. And I don't want to."

"Of course you don't. I daresay he's all right, as such men go. But
he's very much of the earth, earthy. When I say I don't know him at
all, I mean--er--personally. I met him with a crowd last night, and
he's a good mixer. He made friends right and left."

"Never mind him," and the girl turned her amber eyes on him. They were
amber in this light, but sometimes they turned to beryl and topaz and
all those shades that old-fashioned people used to call hazel.

Anyway, they were enchanting eyes, and Trent looked into them soberly
as he resumed their broken off talk.

The Princess, as Nash had dubbed her, was not so upstage with people if
she liked them. But travelling alone, as she was, she must needs watch
her step and though the Captain would put her in touch with anyone she
wanted, so far she had deigned to smile only on Max Trent, the story
writer.

She found him interesting and entertaining, and though she purposed
soon to make some pleasant woman acquaintances, she had so far, delayed
it.

"Yes," Trent picked up his interrupted tale, "I thought it would be of
use to me in my detective stories, and so I took it up. Oh, I know it
is quite the thing to guy a correspondence course in anything. But I
guy the guys that guy it. I master it, it doesn't master me. And, you'd
be surprised, not only have I learned enough from it to write my yarns
more convincingly and correctly, but I've become really interested in
detection as a game."

"What! You want to be a detective?"

"I don't want to be one--I am one. I didn't go for to do it. It was
greatness thrust upon me. I just couldn't help it. You see, with the
bits I picked out of that correspondence course, and my natural bent
for all that sort of thing, I just _am_ a detective."

"And are you going to take--what do you call 'em?--cases?"

"Oh, Lord no! I'm not going to practise. But it's fine for my books.
Don't you see, I can write better detective stories if I am a
detective."

"Yes, I suppose so!" She lowered her voice. "Who is this bearing down
upon us? He looks as if he meant to speak to us."

She judged correctly, and in another moment the passer-by had paused.

"Good morning, Mr. Trent," he said, in a quiet, pleasant way. "Sunday
is a day when everybody ought to feel generous-minded and charitable
and love their neighbors as themselves. So may I flock with you people
a little bit?"

His manner and speech disarmed Miss Forman's suddenly-roused antagonism
and she smiled such a welcome, that Trent introduced the stranger at
once.

"Mr. Mason," he said, "Mr. Sherman Mason, of New York."

Trent's inflections gave Mr. Mason a standing at once, and Maisie
extracted a hand from the fluttering scarf ends she was holding, and
gave it to him in greeting.

He sat on the extended front of Trent's chair, and the talk naturally
drifted to books.

"Along came Ruth," called out a gay and cheery voice, and Miss Gibbs,
all uninvited, joined the group.

"I've been looking for you, Mr. Mason," she chided, "you promised to
take me to walk the deck this morning."

Had Sherman Mason voiced his thoughts, he would have said he'd rather
take her to walk the plank, but he merely bowed and smiled and observed
that the morning was not over yet.

"No," agreed Lily Gibbs, "and I'm glad of your defection since it
gives me opportunity to meet the charming Miss Forman. May I introduce
myself? I'm Lily Gibbs--Silly Lily--some folks call me!" she giggled
appropriately. "Oh, I foresee we shall be _such_ friends!"

She hunted out the girl's hand from the enveloping chiffon folds of the
futile scarf, and enthusiastically clasped it in both her own. "Dear
Miss Forman, how glad I am to call you friend!"

"Thank you," said Maisie, and though her voice was sweet, something
about it made Miss Gibbs drop the hand she held, and sit up straighter.

Sherman Mason, seeing it all, smilingly threw himself into the breach
and rose, saying, "Come Miss Gibbs, or we shan't have any sort of tramp
before lunch time."

The two went off, and Trent looked whimsically at the frowning girl
before him.

"I couldn't help it," he said, defensively. "Detectives spot criminals,
but they can't prevent crime."

Maisie rippled a little laugh.

"Of course you couldn't help it. I can't expect to be shielded from the
great army of the Sociably Inclined. And don't think me a stuck-up,
please. I'm not, really, only--alone as I am--."

"How do you happen to be alone?" said Trent, quietly, with an earnest
interest that robbed his query of rudeness.

"Why, it--it just happened--that I have to cross alone. When I arrive
on the Liverpool dock, I shall be properly and correctly cared for."

She looked out to sea as she spoke, and her reply seemed to be more to
herself than to her companion.

"Please don't think I meant to be intrusive," he begged, and she said,
quickly:

"Oh, no, I didn't. It's all right. It doesn't matter. I ought to have
brought a maid, you see--but I didn't. I'll attach myself to some dear
old lady, or a nice young matron, and then I'll be all right."

"You're all right, anyway," Trent told her; "as right as rain! Captain
Van Winkle will find a chaperon for you, if you really want one. But
why not live up to your privileges as a free young American girl, and
shift for yourself?"

"Perhaps I shall." Miss Forman still showed that preoccupied air, and
Trent was not surprised when she picked up her books and things and
left him with a smiling but dignified "Good morning."

The rollicking crowd came back from their deck games, and Trent quickly
immersed himself in a book and drew his cap down over his eyes.

From beneath its brim, he could see Oscar Cox pass, surrounded by
laughing girls and their attendant swains.

He heard Cox saying: "--and before I leave this ship, I'll tell you all
something that will knock you silly with astonishment! By Gad, I will!"

He laughed his big, booming chuckle that was infectious if
unconventional.

Oily Cox made friends right and left. And though for the moment he
was the midst of a crowd of shrieking, giggling youngsters, he was
quite as much at home with their dancing mothers, or with their wise,
shrewd, business-like fathers.

The man had one Life Motto: Get what you want

And now, after furious struggles, he had got what he wanted, and until
a time should come when he wanted something else, he was contentedly
happy.

By some strange freak of Nature, Sunday morning always flies by on the
wings of the wind, but Sunday afternoon, except for lovers, invariably
drags.

There were no lovers, that anyone knew of, on board the _Pinnacle_, and
Sunday afternoon was a week long.

Maisie Forman stuck to her cabin, because she didn't want to be
bothered with intrusive strangers.

Max Trent stuck to his, because he feared if he went to his deck chair,
Miss Forman would think him a nuisance.

The flapper girls huddled in one or other of their cabins, comparing
notes of conquest, and their adoring swains forgathered in the smoking
room and pretended they were men.

Miss Gibbs wandered about to no purpose, and the big financial magnates
got together and listened to one another talk business.

Oscar Cox, being the biggest and wisest, said the least.

Sherman Mason and Owen Camper, only a shade less influential in the
busy marts, were nearly as silent.

Hal Mallory and Pollard Nash, scorning the younger crowd, heard with
only a half interest the guarded opinions and canny advices of the
Powers of Finance, and tried to urge Cox into a mood for telling funny
stories.

But he was disinclined, and even made no reference to his somewhat
versatile namesake nephew.

Yet, a little later, as the talk somehow drifted to superstition and
the power of a curse and all that, Cox suddenly waked up.

"Nobody but a fool believes in the supernatural," he said,
dogmatically, "and only a half-wit believes in curses or charms against
evil. But I will say that nearly everybody has just one little pet
foolishness of that sort. Why, I know a man who goes back home if he
sees a black cat on his way to business!"

"Didn't know black cats went to business," put in the irrepressible
Mallory.

"That will be about all from you Hal Mall," and Cox scowled in mock
severity. "And my wife--dead these many years--" his voice softened,
"if she put on any garment wrong side out, by chance, she wouldn't
turn it, because that meant bad luck. Nor would she let me. On two
occasions I went to my office with one sock wrong side out!"

"And yet you say you're not superstitious!" Mason exclaimed.

"That isn't superstition--that's marital devotion," Cox returned. "But
as I said, everybody has one little pet foible of his own, and I have
mine, though it isn't a fear to set right a shirt put on wrong side
out."

"What is it?" asked one or two, interestedly.

"Hudder," Cox said, and though he scarcely raised his voice a note, it
was a summons, and the queer little valet crept into the room.

"Get the Hand from my box, and bring it here."

Noiselessly, the creature crept away, his soundless, slow shuffle being
describable by no word other than crept.

"Ugh!" Nash said, involuntarily, "that fellow gives me the creeps! How
can you stand him around?"

"Habit," and Cox smiled. Nothing ever seemed to annoy him. "Hudder
isn't much to look at, I'll admit, but he's a wonder at taking care of
me. And of my things. He's valet, secretary, nurse and orderly, all in
one."

The fellow returned then, and handing something to Cox, silently
departed.

"This," and Cox laid the object on the table, "is my Hoodoo and my
Mascot. If I have a small, pet bit of superstition, there it is."

They all looked at it, and saw a bronze hand. A man's hand, nearly
life size, and of wonderful workmanship. It was a strong--diabolically
strong hand, its fingers spread apart, yet partly clenched as if
to clutch an enemy in a death grip. The hand was lean and sinewy;
muscular, not bony, and imbued with the effect of strength and power
seldom seen even in a living hand.

Yet withal, there was beauty in the design, genius in the workmanship.

And with a quick appreciation of this, Pollard Nash said, impulsively,
"I bet that's a Rodin!"

Cox flashed him a glance of approval.

"Right, my boy," he said; "but it's only a copy. However, it's a
faithful copy, and few could distinguish it from the original. Yes, a
copy of one of Rodin's finest studies. Look at the marvellous detail.
This bronze thing has real muscle, real veins--by golly, I'll bet it
has a nervous system!"

Cox's face was lighted up with enthusiasm, and Nash was only second in
admiration. To most of the others it was merely a good-looking bronze
hand, few understood its great art.

"Well," Cox went on, "That hand is my Luck. But whether good or bad
luck, I don't know. I always keep it by me, so far it hasn't gone back
on me. I've snatched all I've wanted, along life's pathway, and if the
grip of those bronze fingers portend anything, they mean that what I've
got I'll keep."

Cox's voice was somber, now, deep as with strong emotion, yet ringing
and vibrant as he brought out the last words.

A little gingerly, Mallory lifted the hand.

"Some heavy," he said, slightly surprised at its weight.

"Yes, solid bronze is heavy. But I lug it around with me,
because--well, that's my little foolishness."

"It's worth while, as a work of art," Nash said, and one or two others
nodded assent. "And it's very beautiful."

"No," said Owen Camper, "it's fine, and I daresay valuable, but I don't
agree that it's beautiful."

"Not pleasing to the untrained eye, perhaps," Nash returned, "but
beautiful in its perfect naturalness and gripping effect of strength
and--."

"Oh, it has a gripping effect, all right," laughed Hal. "I wouldn't
care to have it grip me! I say, Mr. Cox, if you had two of them, they'd
make a wonderful pair of book-ends!"

Oscar Cox gave him a look of mild reproach, but the undismayed wag
went on to say, "However, having but one, you'll have to use it as a
doorstop--fine for that, just heavy enough."

"Shut up, Hal," Nash said; "do you want them all to think you run a
gift shop when you're at home?"

The turned tables warded off the annoyance beginning to show in Cox's
eyes. It was plain to be seen he was sensitive about his treasure,
whether superstitious or not.

For a long time Polly Nash played with the Bronze. He patted and
stroked it. He gripped his own hand to the same position. He
scrutinized the bronze palm, saying, "a palmist could read these lines."

At last he gave it back to Cox, who turned it over to the hovering
Hudder, and then all broke loose with their waiting questions.

"Where did he get it?" "Who made it?" "Why did he think it either lucky
or unlucky?" "What was its history?"

"One at a time," Oscar Cox begged, smiling.

"My nephew made it for me. He's a young chap--my namesake by the
way--and he's an art student in Paris. At least, he has been a student,
now he's a sculptor. He got a chance, somehow, to copy the Rodin and,
I was anxious to have it, so he gave it to me. I made it up to him, of
course, and I was delighted to have it."

"Why?"

"Just foolishness!" Cox laughed aloud. "I told you that in the first
place, you remember. I think it brings me good luck--but--."

"But it may go back on you," suggested Camper. "In that case, would you
pitch it overboard?"

"Only if I were sure that the ill luck came through the direct
instrumentality of the Bronze Hand," and Cox looked serious.

"But how do you know your good luck has come through its direct
instrumentality?"

"I don't," and Cox beamed his sunniest smile. "But I like to think so.
That's part of the foolishness!"

"Speaking of hands," said Mallory, "how about a game of bridge?"

A quartette was easily collected, and they went off to the card room.

Others drifted away, until only Cox and Polly Nash were left of the
original group.

"And you cart that heavy thing all about?" Nash said, musingly.

"Yes--you see, it wouldn't be a bad weapon, in case of need."

"That's so, too. Why are the fingers half clenched, that way? Was the
original part of a whole figure?"

"That I don't know. My nephew never told me. But the fingers
aren't clenched--or half clenched, they're clutching. Clutching at
something--."

"Gold?" asked Nash, his imagination stirred by Cox's intensity.

"Maybe--I don't know. Perhaps gold--perhaps love--perhaps
hate--revenge!"

Nash looked up quickly, saw the twinkle in Cox's eyes and realized he
was spoofing.

Nash laughed, too, a bit relieved at the snap of the tension.

"How little we know each other," he said; "I never should have dreamed
you had that sort of thing in your makeup, Mr. Cox."

"No, most of our makeup doesn't show on the outside,--unlike the
ladies," he added with a laugh.

And this effectually put an end to any further serious conversation,
for Oscar Cox betook himself off, chuckling at his own jest, and Polly
Nash felt an immediate need for gay companionship.




                              CHAPTER III

                        THE YOUNGER GENERATION


Monday was another beautiful _dolce far niente_ day.

The portion of deck where Oscar Cox had his chair, back against the
side of the ship, and where many of his friends and acquaintances
surrounded him, was the chief center of interest, and was a sort of
Headquarters for planning entertainments and diversions.

The young people adored Cox, and many fathers had brilliant if vague
hopes for the future.

Unstinting in his interest, advice and financial help when required,
Oscar Cox, though a hard-headed business man, was soft hearted where
the feminine element was concerned.

The flappers hung on his deck chair, they flattered him and jollied
him, until, when he tired of the game, he would brush them all away,
like a swarm of flies, and forbid them to come near him until summoned.

Whereupon, they would run off, laughing, to the very young gentlemen
whom they thought it funny to call Sheiks, though some grouchy,
middle-aged people called them Deck Lizards.

Nash and Mallory were too old to be classed in this lot, both being
beyond thirty, but they enjoyed the youngsters' fun, and were good
sports.

Especially did they make themselves useful when an elaborate game was
being arranged.

And today one was in process of unfolding.

"It's too wonderful, my darlings!" Sally Barnes cried, as she ran to
meet the pair on the deck, and taking an arm of each, hurried them over
to a chattering crowd by the rail.

"A Treasure Hunt!" Gladys Parker cried. "Think of it! We can go poking
into everybody's state-rooms and into the Captain's chiffonier and into
Miss Gibbs' Innovation trunk and ever'thin'!"

"Not in my stateroom!" Mallory declared.

"Oh, pooh! Hal Mall, there'd be nothing interesting in yours! Bet you
haven't a single thrill in your whole luggage! But fancy Mrs. Camper's,
now!"

"Why especially Mrs. Camper?"

"Oh, she's so mysterious--so--so exciting, you know. They say--."

"Oh, you gossips!" Nash cried, impatiently. "Never mind that, tell me
more about your game."

"Well, we have to get a treasure first, a prize, you know--something
awfully worth while--two of them, in fact, one for men and one for
wimmens. I--I dare to venture to hope that maybe, perhaps Mr. Cox will
give us those--one of them anyway. Well, then--oh, gosh! there's
Dolly!" and the speaker ran away to greet a friend.

"I'll tell you," another girl began. "You know a Treasure Hunt. You go
to one place, and that sends you to another, and so on, all over the
ship."

"But you'll have to get permission to snoop into people's
state-rooms--."

"Oh yes, of course. That's one of the things you're to do. Everybody
must help some. Of course we can't barge into a lady's cabin, if she
doesn't know we're coming. A man wouldn't mind it so much. Well, all
those things have to be looked after. We're waiting for Mr. Cox, to see
what he'll give us for the Treasure. Oh, here he comes! My gladsome
boy, good morning! Are you all set for a touch? I warn you, we're out
for b'ar! We want--."

"Clear out with you! I don't care what you want--you won't get it from
me! I'm all full of grouch, and if you come near, I'll bite you!"

Oscar Cox's tone was only mock ferocious, yet there was no twinkle in
his eye, and the young people sensed at once that he was really out of
sorts or out of temper or something.

They realized it was unwise to push him at the moment, and they fell
back vanquished but very far from subdued.

"Leave him lay," Sally advised, sagaciously. "He'll come out of it all
right. Let's plan the thing all the same. We can get the Hunt all fixed
up and then His Oiliness will only have to provide the Treasure."

"I say," put in Gladys, "do you suppose Miss Stuck-up Forman will let
us hunt in her room? I'd love to get a snoop in there."

"What do you think, Mr. Nash? You know her, don't you?"

"I've met her but I can't answer for her amiability in this matter. Why
not ask her?"

Maisie's chair, with Trent's now next to it, was half a deck length
away and the wild horde ran there half scared, half pleased at the idea
of making their request.

"Oh, please, Miss Forman," cried Sally Barnes, who was a natural born
spokesman, "please say 'yes'--won't you? You see it's for the benefit
of the sick babies in the third class, and we want it to be a success,
and if you'll say 'yes,' lots of other people will tag along--see?"

Maisie roused herself and sat upright.

Though but two or three years older than these rollicking girls, she
seemed immeasurably their senior, and her calm dignity made them appear
hoydenish and rude.

But, greatly to Trent's surprise, she received them with the most
charming of smiles, drew Sally down to her chair beside her, and said:

"Tell me all about it. I'd love to help the sick babies."

Sally gazed at her, enthralled. Suddenly she acquired a new enthusiasm.

"Oh, Miss Forman!" she cried, "I care for you! Aren't you a winner! And
ooh! these things!"

She ran her finger-tips admiringly over Maisie's chic little hat, and
her smart sports _ensemble_, and picking up her vanity case, proceeded,
as she talked, to rummage therein.

"It's a Treasure Hunt," she began to explain--"oh, tell her about it,
girls, I want to play wiv dese!"

She drew out the exquisite appointments for facial improvement, and
gazed enraptured at a gold-mounted lipstick.

"Yes, tell me," and Maisie smiled at the others, the while she
unostentatiously drew her belongings from Sally's ubiquitous fingers,
and shut them back in her bag, of which she retained possession.

Sally gazed at her a moment, then picked up the hem of her skirt and
kissed it. After which, Sally, the invincible, now the devoted slave of
Maisie Forman, returned to the babbling chorus.

"You know Treasure Hunts, Miss Forman, don't you?"

"Yes, of course," and Maisie smiled encouragingly. "But only in cities,
or across country--."

"All the same," one of the very young men struck in now. He simply
had to. "We think we can stage one on the _Pinnacle_. We haven't asked
the Captain yet, but he's pulp in the girls' hands, and--" with sudden
inspiration, "perhaps you'd put in a word for us, Miss Forman."

"But I thought it was all arranged for," and Maisie smiled inquiringly.

"Y--yes, all but getting the Captain's consent--."

"And Mr. Cox's gift--."

"And seeing about going in people's state-rooms--."

"Yes," Sally declared, "it's all arranged, except a few trifling
details of that sort. Now, Miss Forman, can we--may we hunt in your
cabin?"

"My Heavens, no! What an idea! I'll do my part some other way."

"Oh, it'll be such a card for us, if you give your permission. Then
nobody would refuse."

"Do you--you can't possibly mean to let you rummage through my
belongings--."

"Oh, lock up anything you don't want us to see. All your petting notes
and suitors' pictures. All your booze and dope--."

"All your transformations and--."

But Maisie was helpless with laughter. She was unfamiliar with this
particular type of free and easy patter, and the breezy, giggling
girls, and the hovering, would-be _blasé_ boys, seemed to her like an
act from a play.

Maisie Forman had no mother, and her tired business man of a father had
brought her up conventionally and a bit ignorantly. Jonathan Forman
adored his daughter, and had given her luxuries and advantages to the
best of his knowledge and belief, but now, alone in the world, for the
moment, and eagerly interested in all she saw and heard, Maisie was
finding out how little she knew of mundane conditions, after all.

Not that she wanted to belong to this noisy, boisterous herd, but she
wanted to see them, to hear them, to watch them. She was beginning to
feel that her exclusiveness was perhaps a mistake; that she could enjoy
herself better by mixing, to a degree at least, with these people who
had startled her at first.

"I'll tell you," she said at last, as she gained more definite ideas as
to their wants, "I'll help you. And if it's necessary for you to invade
my room, you may. We'll see about that later. But what else can I do?
Subscribe to the buying of the Treasure? Take tickets for the Hunt?
What?"

"Well, you see, Miss Forman, we plan to get Mr. Cox to give us the
Treasure. But he's in a heluva grouch this morning, and we don't dast
tackle him. How would it be if you asked him?"

"Me? Ask Mr. Cox! Why, I don't even know him."

"Oh, that doesn't matter. Maybe Mr. Trent would ask him. He knows him."

Trent had been an interested listener but had so far, said little.

"Not I," he declared, positively. "There's nobody so appropriate for
that errand as you youngsters yourselves. Wait till he's in his usual
sunny mood--not long, probably--and then approach him with your usual
tact and delicacy--."

"You're making fun of us--" and Sally somehow managed to bring two big
tears to her dancing eyes. It was a trick of hers.

"What else are you good for?" asked Trent, with a wondering stare, as
he drew out a big folded handkerchief and offered it with a flourish
for the absorption of the tears.

"I say," piped up a good-looking boy, "old Oily is looking over here,
and scowling like a pickax!"

"Jealous, probably," said Nash, with a glance across the deck. "He
thinks you've deserted him."

Sally jumped up and ran over to Cox's chair.

"I say," she cried, bearding the lion in his den, "Miss Forman over
there wants to speak to you."

"To me?" returned Cox, in amazement.

"Yes," Sally lied on, "she sent me to tell you--to ask you if you'd
please step over there a minute."

"Certainly," said the Oil man, still looking incredulously at Sally.
"Are you sure Miss Forman sent for me? We're--we're not acquainted."

"I'll introduce you, come ahead!" Sally fairly tugged at his coat, for
her courage was weakening, and she was about ready to back out.

Oscar Cox strode along the deck, and joined the rollicking group.

"Miss Forman," he said, "Miss Barnes tells me you do me the honor to
wish to speak to me."

Maisie Forman looked at him, a blank expression on her lovely face.

"I?" she said. "You?" Her air became haughty. All the _camaraderie_ she
had shown the young people vanished, and she was again the Princess in
disguise, and not much disguised at that.

Then she turned to the culprit, now shaking with laughter.

"Sally," she said, "why did you tell that naughty story? And just when
I was beginning to like you!"

Trent picked up the situation.

"Mr. Cox," he said, "these children are full of the old Nick today.
Miss Forman didn't send for you, Miss Barnes made that up. But may I
present you? Miss Forman, this is Mr. Cox, whom I trust I may call a
friend of mine. Mr. Cox, Miss Forman--also my friend."

"Then, now, we're all friends," cried Sally, gayly, "and the goose
hangs high!"

But a constraint had fallen on the more serious-minded ones of the
group.

Maisie kept her aloof, exclusive air, which Trent began to suspect she
used toward all but her near friends, and youngsters.

Oscar Cox, himself, seemed uncertain whether to join the gayety of the
flappers, or adopt a dignity to match Miss Forman's.

Mallory and Nash were interested in the whole episode, while the young
people, trusting to their safety in numbers, began to clamor for a
Treasure for the Treasure Hunt.

"And Miss Forman has promised to help you, has she?" Cox said, at last.
"Well, then, I'll help, too. Now here's my proposition. If Miss Forman
asks me for it, prettily, I'll give the thing to her, and she can give
it to the Hunt Club, or whatever you call yourselves."

"Hoo-ray!" started the cheer leader, Sally, and the deck rang with
their gratitude.

"But you haven't it yet," Cox warned them, smilingly. "Will Miss Forman
ask for it?"

"Yes, indeed," Maisie returned, growing a little flushed as all eyes
rested on her, "of course I will. My dear Mr. Cox, please give these
young people the Treasure they want for their game called 'Treasure
Hunt.' Please give it to them at my request, and for the benefit of the
poor little sick kiddies on board. Please do."

The words were sincere, though the tone was playful, rather than
beseeching. Maisie had managed to make it seem a plea, yet with an
undercurrent that gave a sense of organized charity and entirely
eliminated the personal equation.

Oscar Cox looked at her with a glance that saw right through her
pretense and accepted her words at their true worth.

Yet he laughed genially, and told the eager crowd at his side that they
should surely have their Treasure, as soon as he could manage to find
or procure something appropriate.

"We want to have the Hunt tomorrow," they told him. "Tomorrow
afternoon. It's Fourth of July, and we're going to celebrate from
morning till night."

"I'm trying to persuade Puppy Abercrombie to climb up with a Star
Spangled Banner and put it in place of the English flag," announced a
blue-eyed baby doll, in a shrill piping shriek.

"Now, don't be silly," Cox said, a little sternly. "You kids are so
nice when you are just funny without being vulgar. Don't disturb any
flags, you'll have enough Hail Columbia without. The Captain is going
to give you glorious decorations for luncheon and all that. Don't repay
him by any annoyance."

"No sir," said one demurely, and the rest repeated it like so many
parrots.

Laughing both at them and with them, Cox went off and they followed
like the children following the Pied Piper of Hamelin.

"I can't quite get that man," said Nash, who, with Hal Mallory had
stayed behind and basked in the warmth of Miss Forman's suddenly
displayed cordiality. "He's a great financier, yet he never talks
business. He's a good deal of a sportsman, I've heard, yet he never
plays games with anyone but the youngsters. He's said to be fond of
ladies' society, yet he never speaks to a lady--older than those
flappers, and he treats them like children, he isn't really interested
in them."

"It seemed to me," Maisie said, "his interest was really fatherly, or
like a rich bachelor uncle. Is he a bachelor?"

"No, a widower," Nash told her. "He has the queerest sort of an orderly
or valet, or something. I'm not crazy about this plan of invading
people's state-rooms."

"They won't," said Trent. "Except where they're urgently invited.
Captain Van Winkle won't allow any annoying intrusions--of that I'm
sure. And there are lots of places for the Hunt. I daresay it'll be
rather fun."

"If Cox has a guiding hand, the whole game will be all right," Mallory
put in. "I don't altogether like that man, yet I know he has excellent
ideas of the eternal fitness of things. And the kids will obey him."

"Why does he seem to be of such importance?" Maisie asked. "I hear much
about him, and little of the other influential men on board. There are
a lot, aren't there?"

"Heaps," said Mallory. "Why, Owen Camper and Mr. Mason, and Mr. Grell
and--oh, lots of Wall Street men are in the smoking room every night.
But they, most of them have wives and families along. I fancy Cox is a
bit of a gay dog."

"If you mean inclined to gay company or gay doings, I haven't seen
anything of it," Nash objected. "Except for playing with those
children, he keeps mostly to rather grave and sober company."

"He danced with Miss Gibbs--" Trent offered.

"Then it was because he couldn't help himself!" said Nash so fervently
that Maisie laughed outright.

She had a gay, ringing little laugh, and the three men within hearing
distance promptly fell more deeply in love than ever.

After tea, Miss Gibbs was moved to read palms.

This was a hobby of hers, and she used it to decided advantage in the
matter of attracting people to her side.

The young people soon tired of it, as they knew the lingo by heart. But
Oscar Cox surprised the palmist by asking her to read a hand for him.

She lavishly consented, and Cox produced from his deck bag the Bronze
Hand.

"What a beauty," exclaimed Miss Gibbs, who knew all about art, though
she didn't know what she liked.

"Yes, a fine piece of work. What do you make of it by means of
palmistry?"

Though the bronze fingers were bent over at the second joints, the palm
of the hand was freely exposed.

"You don't think I can really see anything in it?" Lily Gibbs said,
looking at him.

"Why not? If the palm is as true as the whole hand, why shouldn't it
tell something?"

"Very well," and she scrutinized the bronze thoughtfully.

"It is contradictory," she said, at last. "I get nothing sure, nothing
really indicative." Then, noting the disappointment on Cox's face, she
quickly proceeded to call on her inventive imagination.

"It is the hand of a criminal," she said, suddenly, careless of the
truth. "The lines show evil--deep evil."

But though she was fibbing, it was not evident. Lily Gibbs was too
clever for that.

"There is," she went on, soberly, "another influence at work, a
better part of the man's nature, that strives against the deep rooted
villainy, but it is a hopeless struggle. Whoever was the model for this
bronze hand, was a wicked, a diabolically wicked man. That's all I can
say. Do you know anything about the original?"

"No, don't know for sure that there was one. Maybe the hand is
idealized or assembled from several models."

"Maybe," agreed Lily. "But, Mr. Cox, aside from the matter of
palmistry, I, well, you see, I am a little--a tiny bit--clairvoyant."

"Are you?" The tone showed interest. "Well?"

"I see things--not apparent to others--I see things of the future,
omens, augurs,--circling wings--."

"In connection with this hand?" Cox was superstitious after all.

"Yes; I see harm coming to you--to your own well-being, your own
safety."

"What sort of harm?"

"That I don't know, but deep wrong--irremediable disaster."

"Oh, come, now, Miss Gibbs," and Hal Mallory's gay voice proved that he
had overheard her chatter. "Don't scare the poor man out of his wits."

"But it's all true," said Lily Gibbs, a little sulkily. "I can't help
it if I have second sight!"

"Second fiddlesticks!" snorted Mallory, who was furiously down on all
sorts of charlatanry.

"Oh, very well," and Miss Gibbs walked off in the state of mind
commonly known as high dudgeon.

"Now you've made an enemy!" exclaimed Cox.

"I don't care. Why do you encourage her in that rubbish?"

"Maybe it isn't rubbish--maybe it's revelation."

"Maybe you're the whole Pentateuch and the Apocrypha thrown in! I'd
rather listen to the flappers' babble than to the Gibbs' hokum. Come
along, and I'll feed you a cocktail to brush the cobwigs out of your
brain."

       *       *       *       *       *

It was after dinner that night that Maisie Forman, for the first time
on board, consented to dance.

Max Trent had urged her again and again, only to be refused, but at
last he sensed that she was wavering slightly in her decision, and he
renewed his appeals.

"Oh, well, yes, then," she said, with a smile that was half a sigh. "I
do love to dance--I will--just once."

"Once at a time is enough," he laughed, as they went on the floor.

The music was perfect, so was the dancing space. Not too crowded, cool
and pleasant, and as Maisie at once discovered, they suited one another
exactly. She could remember no other partner she had ever had whose
ways so pleased her.

She caught herself up quickly. Was she losing her heart to Trent?

Nonsense--just because she liked to dance with a man who knew the art,
must she suspect herself of falling in love with him?

But when the dance was finished, she looked white and tired.

"What's the matter?" asked Trent, aghast. "That little spin couldn't
have done you up like this! Are you ill, Miss Forman?"

"No--no, thank you, I'm all--all right. But if you please, I'll go at
once to my room. Good night Mr. Trent--and, thank you. Please--please
do not go with me. Just put me in the elevator."

Trent obeyed, and greatly mystified, went out on deck to think it over.

He chose an upper deck, and sat there alone for a long time. He had
much to think about, and he didn't want to dance any more that night.

At last, after perhaps two hours, he saw a woman's figure, wrapped in a
long cape, come out on the deck where he sat. He was in a dark corner,
and though she glanced around, he knew she didn't see him.

With a slow but firm and steady step, she went to the rail and looked
over the side of the boat.

She stood motionless a moment or two, then with a quick movement
climbed up on the rail, holding to the upright post.

Horror-stricken almost beyond power to move, Trent nevertheless managed
to get out of the chair and spring across the deck to her.

He clutched her, bodily, just as she moved to jump. Another second
would have been too late--indeed, it was all he could do to overcome
the momentum she had already given her lithe limbs.

He set her down on the deck with a jerk, and looked into her face.

It was Maisie Forman!




                              CHAPTER IV

                          THE FOURTH OF JULY


Max Trent sat long in his cabin, that night, wondering why Maisie
Forman had tried to jump overboard. Save as a conventional human
responsibility, it was none of his business. And, naturally, he had
done his duty. He had seen her danger, rescued her from it, and then,
though he had accompanied her to the short corridor which led to her
own stateroom, neither had spoken a word.

She had hurried down the corridor, opened her door and vanished, and he
had sought his own room at once.

He was shocked, horrified, moved to pity, suspicious--lots of
things--but most of all, curious.

Why? Why should that lovely girl wish to throw away a young life, just
commencing, with beauty, charm, power, riches--all at her command?

He knew almost no details of her circumstances, for their talk, when
together, had been almost entirely of impersonal matters. Indeed, he
realized now that he had told her much more of himself than she had
confided to him of her own life.

Not yet had she told him why she was travelling alone.

There was ever an air of reserve about her--reserve so great as to
amount to mystery. Yet, hers was no morbid temperament or disposition.

Why, then, why--of all things--want to drown herself?

A momentary thought came, that it was a staged scene. That she knew he
was there, and wanted to create a sensation.

But it did not ring true. She did not--could not know he was there. And
too, she never glanced toward him. She had walked slowly, but steadily,
straight to the rail, and stepped up on it.

God! He could feel the thrill of it yet! The split second that enabled
him to get a grip on those already tensed muscles!

She was not out of her mind. She was not walking in her sleep.

Of those two things he was positive.

Then why? _Why?_

But, strangely, he also felt certain she would not repeat her attempt,
probably never would. He could feel her shudder of scared relief as she
found herself saved, almost as by a miracle.

Trent was not in love with Maisie Forman. He admired her charm, her
well-informed mind and her ready flashes of humor.

He was lazily getting acquainted, and enjoying the process. And now,
this? What did it portend? What would she say or do the next morning?
Why did she do it?

But it was not his business, and he thriftily reached for a notebook,
to set down, in the way authors love to do, a few jottings of the
affair; so illegible, usually, or so abbreviated, as to be of small use
if any.

Trent was a good-looking chap, but wholly without personal vanity.

His dark hair was longish and curlyish on top, but severely cut into
place. His chin and muscles were strong--so was his will, and--he
chose to think--his personality. His nose formed a perfect angle of
forty-five degrees, with base, altitude and hypotenuse, all complete.

His greatest charm lay in his eyes. Not only that they were good eyes,
of a deep-colored, deep-set blue, but he had a trick of looking up
under his long lashes that was very fetching. He had acquired this
habit, a schoolboy affection, purposely. But it had now become natural
and he often found it useful in the matter of invitation or persuasion.

At thirty, Trent was experienced enough to be a bit cynical. Eight or
ten years ago, the event he had just lived through would have roused
different feelings within him.

Just now, his one thought was a wish that the morning would come so he
could read the next chapter of Maisie Forman's story.

And when the morning came and the time was ripe, he went on deck, with
the same anticipation he would have felt on entering a theater.

Miss Forman was already there, snugly wrapped in her rug, for though it
would be hot later, the morning of Independence Day was fresh and cool.

Their chairs had chanced to be adjoining ones, and as they had become
acquainted, both felt glad that chance had favored them.

Trent slipped into his place, after a mere smiling "Good morning" and
settling back, with an opened book, left the handling of the situation
to the girl.

But Maisie said no word. She looked out to sea, her own calm apparently
equalling that of the expanse of glassy water before them. She sat
motionless, no nervousness showing in her quiet hands or expressionless
face.

After a few furtive glances, Trent felt he might risk a bit of speech.

"What you need is a Life Insurance Policy," he said, in a light voice.

To his surprise Maisie smiled, almost laughed. Perhaps the tension had
been pleasantly if suddenly broken.

"I had something just as good," she returned, and flashed him a glance
that contained a world of unspoken thanks.

"I'm glad you're duly grateful," Trent said, answering her look as well
as her words. "But it was a narrow squeak."

"Yes. How did you happen to be there?"

"I'd been there a long time. It's a favorite corner of mine. And Fate
ordained it, of course."

"Oh, of course--in the sense that Fate ordains everything."

"Yes, and we can't circumvent her. Although you tried your prettiest.
Why did you do it?"

"Nice of you to call it a pretty attempt. Did I look picturesque, or
like a Movie heroine?"

"Both. But, as I said, why did you do it?"

"Just to make a scene," she said, lightly. "I knew you would catch
me--."

"Don't tell fibs. You had no idea I was there. You were fully
determined to jump. I barely caught you in time. In fact, I was so
nearly paralyzed at the sight, I could scarcely command my muscles to
move at all."

"I suppose I ought to be grateful to you--."

"You are. And you're going to prove that gratitude by promising not to
attempt it again. For next time I might not be there."

"No, I'd see to that!"

Trent was shocked at the bitterness in her tone.

But he did not take it upon himself to admonish her further. "I suppose
you feel," he said, "that you have the right--."

"Of course I have. Everyone has a right to end a life that is
unbearable. And, 'over the fence is out!'"

"What, what?" came a low but audible voice, as Oscar Cox paused in
front of them. "Miss Forman going to drown herself?"

Both Trent and Maisie were astounded that this man could have heard
their conversation or part of it. For they had been speaking almost in
whispers. Truly he had phenomenal hearing. Or a chance puff of wind had
blown the sound to him.

"Not much," Trent declared. "We're playing a Fourth of July parlor
game. We guess what is the most unlikely thing another could do. That
was my guess for her."

"And a poor guess," Maisie declared. "If I want to jump overboard, I
have a right to, haven't I, Mr. Cox?"

"Most assuredly," he returned, heartily. "And I believe you will. Why,
if I thought you wouldn't, I'd put you over myself. That is, if you
really want to go over. Do you?"

"Yes," said Maisie, and she flashed a mutinous look at Cox, for neither
she nor Trent liked his style of kidding.

But the subject was dropped as some young people came along, with flags
and streamers of red, white and blue, and with various noise-making and
ear-splitting instruments of torture.

"We're the gems of the ocean," announced Sally Barnes, "and that
dear darling duck of a Captain has given us a table to ourselves for
luncheon, and we're going to make noise enough to be heard in New York,
Chicago and points West! Let's bedeck Mr. Cox--" and from all hands
darted streamers of red, white and blue paper ribbon, that enveloped
him as in a great meshed net.

With a few flings of his big arms he extricated himself and producing
some paper ribbons from his own pockets, so tied and bound Sally that
she could scarcely move.

"No," he said, to their insistent pleas, "no, I won't sit at your silly
table with you! I always lunch on deck, and I propose to do so today.
But after luncheon, I'll help you with your--what do you call it?
Treasure Hunt?"

Trent and Miss Forman also declined a somewhat perfunctory invitation
to sit at the table of the noisy celebrants of their country's
independence, and the laughing crowd ran away, dragging the not
unwilling Cox with them.

"Queer man," Trent said, looking after him. "How dared he banter you
like that?"

"I think he's impulsive," she returned, uninterestedly, "and says
whatever pops into his head. Let's cut out people, including ourselves,
and talk about books or something."

Obediently and gracefully, Trent turned the subject to a discussion of
a recent novel, and they chatted in desultory fashion until the first
bugle for luncheon sounded.

"I'm going inside now," Trent said, gathering his books together. "Can
I help you?"

"No thanks. I shall stay here until I go down to the dining room. I
suppose everybody will go down today."

"Yes, all good Americans, anyway. There are special decorations and
dishes and--."

"And speeches?"

"Probably. I don't know. Are you patriotic enough to stand those?"

"Patriotic enough for anything," Maisie returned, smiling, as Trent
swung off up the deck.

But her smile faded at once, and she sat motionless, staring out over
the sparkling, glittering acres.

Occupants of the chairs near her rose and went inside. Strains of
national airs came from the orchestra. Shouts and screams of Young
America were heard from all directions, concentrating finally, as the
crowd fell into line on the stairs in a sort of impromptu parade.

Very few remained on deck. Maisie could see one or two quite distant
from her either way. Also she could glimpse Oscar Cox, in his chair,
back against the side of the ship, and just beneath a good sized window
that opened into the library lounge.

She saw the queer-looking servant of Cox come to him, presumably to
get his order for food, and she thought what a strange specimen of
humanity the valet was.

The noise inside grew louder. The Orchestra struck the first notes of
"The Star Spangled Banner," and the wave of song spread over the ship
from stem to stern.

In tune or out, patriot or foreigner, everybody seemed to sing.

The mass of people swayed and swung down the stairs and entered the
dining rooms to find an exhibition of hearty good will and friendliness
to the American nation.

Even after all were seated at their tables, rattles, popguns and shrill
whistles made terrible discords, but it was laughingly forgiven by the
good-natured crowd.

Captain Van Winkle, who was not only the devoted friend and slave of
the young people, but a good-natured man in all respects, beamed round
on his cargo of human beings with the benignant smile of the father of
his ship if not of his country.

And it was just as he was about to take his first spoonful of _potage
a l'Americaine_, brewed by a French chef on an English Liner, that the
Deck Steward came to him and whispered a word in his ear.

Quietly laying down his spoon, the Captain quickly but unhurriedly left
the table. Once outside the dining room, however, he went upstairs two
at a time, scorning the elevators in his haste.

"Get Bowers," he flung over his shoulder to Garson, and strode on.

The Captain reached the deck where Oscar Cox was wont to sit, and where
he usually ate his luncheon.

Already a few curious ones had gathered, but unnoting them, the Captain
went to Cox's chair and paused, horror-stricken at the scene.

On the floor, with its dishes more or less overturned, was the lunch
tray, where the waiter had let it half slide, half drop from his
nerveless fingers.

On the chair was the body of Cox, indubitably dead, indubitably
murdered, and murdered in such horrible fashion as to defy description.

What arm of power, or anger or passion, had dealt such blows on the
head and face of the victim that the sight was enough to make a strong
man turn away? Who could have crept up on Oscar Cox and killed him as
a caveman might kill? What did it mean--this fearful thing, happening
in an atmosphere of holiday pleasure, on a broad, peaceful deck, in the
bright sunlight of a summer day?

A smothered exclamation at his side, brought Captain Van Winkle out of
his momentary daze, and he turned to see Bowers, the Ship's doctor.

The doctor, too, was shocked almost to helplessness, but his
professional instinct and experience pulled him together and stimulated
him to action.

"Murder," he said, speaking almost casually now, "Oscar Cox--of all
men! Where's the weapon? Good God! there it is!"

He pointed to the floor, under the next chair, and there, crimsoned
with the blood of the victim, lay a bronze hand--a horrible, sinister
hand, whose clutching fingers, still dripping red, bore mute witness to
their own deed.

Though strong-hearted and staunch-souled, Captain Van Winkle was of
sensitive nerves, and this further sight of atrocity made him cover his
eyes for an instant.

Then, in another second, his orders came, fast and sure.

"Take charge here, Bowers. Cover the body. Let no one see it. Garson,
rope off the deck to here--no, to here. You, waiter, pick up the tray
and things and take them to the kitchen. And, hark--not a word of this
to anyone until you've leave. Understand?"

The waiter understood, for the Captain's eye and glance were even more
imperative than his words, and menace is a universal language.

At that moment Hudder appeared. He was carrying a small tray with a
bottle and glass.

His small dark eyes took in the scene.

Captain Van Winkle watched him closely, but all he saw was the
meticulous behaviour of the perfect servant.

Hudder set his tray down carefully on a nearby chair, without
disarranging its contents. His face was white, but its vacant, wooden
expression showed no change. He had not been able to see Cox, for the
body was being covered, and the doctor and steward with their helpers
were grouped about it.

"My master is hurt?" Hudder said, gravely, and Captain Van Winkle could
read nothing from his look or speech.

"Yes--very badly hurt. Hopelessly hurt."

"He is dead," Hudder said, not with an interrogative inflection, but as
one stating a fact.

"Yes, he is dead."

"By the Hand?"

"Yes by the Hand! Look here my man, what do you know of the Hand? Of
your master, generally? But, of course, you know more of him than
anyone else on board. Come to my office with me, and answer a few
questions. Now. Stand by, Bowers. This is serious trouble."

Captain Van Winkle, though not a young man, was far from old, and
though well versed in the lore of his calling, and familiar with
many if not most of its exigencies and contingencies, he was only
academically aware of the procedure expected of him in the case of
murder on the high sea.

To be sure, it was not yet proved to be murder, but neither doctor nor
captain could imagine any theory of accident that would account for
the conditions found.

And so, the Captain's thoughts were racing in a dozen directions at
once as he conducted the imperturbable Hudder to his own private room
and interviewed him.

But rankling underneath in the Captain's mind was a sense of the
injustice of Fate. Here he was, past master in the ways and means of
his chosen career, one of the best known and best liked Captains on the
Line, a man who had always been able to meet any situation, to deal
with any emergency that had arisen.

And now, flung at him, was this horrible affair, a thing which, as he
was just beginning to realize, would stamp him and his boat with a
stigma, a memory, that would always cling to and sully her fair fame.

For a thing like this to happen on the _Pinnacle_! It was
inconceivable, incredible! None of his brother Captains had ever been
called to meet such a crisis as this!

Good-natured always, this was the straw that broke the camel's back.
The worm had turned. Unreasonably and unreasoningly, he vented his
anger on the waiting Hudder.

Nor could he have found a better for the purpose.

The valet of Oscar Cox was, it seemed to Van Winkle, a foreigner, of
some Latin country.

But Hudder declared himself of English birth though having lived most
of his life in America.

This the Captain thought to himself, mattered little. It was
information of Cox he was after.

But questions were hard to frame. Of good education, not unread, and
possessed of quick and wise powers of judgment, Peter Van Winkle was
all afloat when it came to what suddenly loomed up up before him as
Detective Work!

Though not addicted to them, he occasionally read Detective Stories,
and mildly interested, marvelled at the strange gift known as detective
instinct.

That, he had long ago concluded, he did not possess, and he had never
for a moment supposed a time would ever come for him to exercise it.

Yet here was the time. It had come upon him like a thief in the night.

Captain he could be. Judge and jury he could be. Executioner he could
be, if he felt the need. But detective he could not be--at least, not
to the extent of his own conception of what it meant.

Yet surely--he brought his troubled thoughts back to Hudder, surely,
he could ask this man a few straightforward questions about his dead
master.

So the following dialogue ensued.

"Where did Mr. Cox live?"

"In New York City, sir."

"Had he a family?"

"No sir. Mr. Cox was a widower for fifteen years or thereabouts."

"His business?"

"That I can't rightly tell you, sir. Mr. Cox had many interests, and
big ones. But such matters are above my head."

Hudder, though he showed a face of wood, had sharp, bright, restless
eyes that seemed to dart suddenly from beneath their lids and then as
quickly run back to cover. He was not a man that inspired confidence.
Van Winkle, who considered himself, and rightly, a fair judge of men,
quickly decided that Hudder was one who would rather lie than tell the
truth. The little man had a bullet-shaped head, covered with stiff,
intractable black hair. When speaking earnestly, which he seldom did,
he thrust his head forward, with an insistent air. But for the most
part, he sat back in his chair, held his head farther back still, and
spoke in monotones.

"At least you know whether he was a butcher or a baker or
candlestick-maker."

Van Winkle's irritation had its root in his own inability to carry on
the interview properly, rather than Hudder's.

"Oh, he was in finance--high finance, I think they call it. Mr. Cox
was a promoter and a director and an advisor and an investor--and all
things like that."

"Connected with any especial company?"

The Captain's familiarity with high finance was also limited.

"Well, sir, there is the Apollonia Mining Company--that's the only one
I can call by name."

"Never heard of it. Mr. Cox lived alone, then?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where?"

"Big bachelor apartment, sir, in one of those new Fifth Avenue
buildings."

"Servants?"

"Six, sir, counting me and his chauffeur."

"No relatives--in other houses?"

"I think not. I never heard of any."

"Born in New York?"

"I'm not sure, but I think not."

"Well, who were his friends? Surely he had some of those."

"Oh, yes, sir. Lots of them. His parties were noted, sir. Small, but
noted, and--."

"Noted? What for?"

"For their beauty and luxury. Yes, sir, everything of the best and in
the best taste. That was Mr. Cox's motto."

"Was he a good man?"

"Was he what, sir?"

"You heard me. A good man. Was Oscar Cox a good man?"

"I'm sure I don't know that," and Hudder sighed.

"You don't know! Of course you know! Tell me."

"Well then, I'll say he was. He gave quite a bit in charities. He gave
all his help fine presents at Christmas and Fourth of July. He never
went to Church--that I know of. But, yes, sir--I call that a good man,
don't you?"

"Not necessarily. Now, see here. As his valet, you know a lot about his
life. You must! Had he enemies?"

"None that I know of." Hudder sat well back in his chair.

"Women friends?"

"He had ladies at his parties."

"Not at his house at other times?"

"Not that I know of." Still farther back Hudder sat.

"Are you remembered in his will?"

"Not that I know of, sir."

"Bah, get out!" and the exasperated Captain flung wide his door.

"Yes, sir," said Hudder and went.




                               CHAPTER V

                              THE MYSTERY


Doctor Bowers, realizing the importance of doing all he could to
keep the details of the tragedy from the passengers, made a thorough
examination of conditions and then ordered the body of Oscar Cox
removed to his stateroom.

It was fortunate that, as luncheon was in progress, and a special
luncheon at that, very few passengers were on deck, and it was not long
before stewards had cleaned up everything to its usual immaculate state.

Cox's deck chair was removed and its neighbors pushed along to form an
unbroken line, so that by the time luncheon was over, no visible sign
remained to tell of the tragedy.

The news had, of course, leaked out and seeped among the stewards, and
somehow, to the ears of the passengers.

And so, gradually, a hush had stolen over the merriment in the dining
rooms and one after another asked the reason.

Then, one after another, groups left their tables and went up on deck.

Miss Lily Gibbs and the Campers, whose chairs stood near the place Cox
had occupied, looked curiously about as they approached the spot.

"His chair's gone," Miss Gibbs cried. "It must be true!"

"Of course, it's true," Owen Camper returned. "I had it from the
Purser. Cox was killed--shot, I believe."

"No, not shot--stabbed," said a passing stranger, who paused to talk.
The occasion made possible conversations that would not have been
thought of otherwise.

Wild stories rumored themselves about and still wilder theories. Many
declared that they knew the true facts of the case, though their
statements were diametrically opposed to one another.

Many who had chairs in the vicinity shunned them, but curiosity drew
others, who sank into the vacated chairs and waited eagerly for news.

The young people were shocked and thrilled by the tragedy but were far
more disturbed at the spoiling of their holiday.

They grouped themselves as far as possible from the scene of interest
and tried to go on with their gayety, but it was a dismal failure.

"I do think it's too bad," Sally Barnes sobbed, "if there had to be an
awful thing happen on this ship, why couldn't it wait till tomorrow?"

And with the thoughtlessness of youth, the rest of them echoed her
wail. Max Trent, having heard the news, made it a point to be in his
chair, when Miss Forman came to hers. He didn't know whether she would
be deeply affected, as so many of the women were, even though they
were not acquainted with the dead man, or whether she would feel only
impersonally the tragic horror of the crime.

But her chair remained vacant all the afternoon. Trent hoped that
tea-time would bring her out, but she did not appear.

The writer of Detective Stories lay back in his own chair, talking with
no one, joining none of the groups of excited talkers.

Here was a detective story with no detective. What the exact procedure
would be, he didn't know, but was intensely interested to learn.
Not from the chatterers, however. The passing bits of conversation
that came to his ears, proved that those who made the most positive
statements, knew the least about the facts. He wanted information from
some of the officers, and that, he knew, couldn't be obtained until
later.

"Come on down to the Smoking Room for a gabfest," said Pollard Nash,
approaching.

Trent hesitated, for he wanted to talk to Miss Forman, should she come
out on deck. But Nash insisted, and he went along.

The men in the Smoking Room, for the most part, talked in guarded
terms of the event. Some few were blatant and self-assertive, but they
were snubbed into comparative silence by the more conservative.

Those who had known Oscar Cox were the ones who were listened to with
deference, and yet, they had little to tell.

A man named Allen was speaking, as Nash and Trent went in, and he was
saying:

"----and that's all I know of Oscar Cox. To sum up, he was a rich man,
who said little about business; who, as I chance to know, put over big
deals and represented large interests, without publicity."

"Anything wrong about him?" asked a shrewd-looking man named Craig.

"Not that I know of," Allen responded, promptly. "I never heard a
breath against his integrity."

Trent looked sharply at the speaker. To him the voice sounded as
if Allen made a mental reservation. But, he thought, he might have
imagined that.

"You knew him, Mr. Mason?" he said, turning to Sherman Mason, whom he
had known and liked for some days.

"Yes, Mr. Trent. And I have had business dealings with him, though not
any of great importance. But like Mr. Allen, I can say I have never
heard anything that impugned the reputation of Oscar Cox."

"Why the discussion?" asked Nash, who wondered. "Why this necessity for
guaranteeing Mr. Cox's honor?"

"Idle questions have been asked," John Allen said, a little severely.

"Who killed him?" said Nash, suddenly, "and what with?"

This question, hitherto unvoiced by the conventionally tongue-tied
ones, opened up a perfect Babel of statements, opinions and
assumptions, so confusing and contradictory that Nash subsided
into silence, watching and listening in the full indulgence of his
irrepressible curiosity.

And Max Trent, also curious, listened too, with deepest interest and
attention.

None seemed to know the instrument of death, but all were ready to
detail the peculiar heinousness and brutality of the crime.

"Butchered--that's what he was, butchered," declared Henry Craig, with
that relish of the gruesome inherent in some natures. "Why, if a lion
had clawed him, he couldn't have been worse--."

"Oh, I say, Craig," broke in Sherman Mason, "spare us a recital of the
horrors! What I'm interested in is the identity of the criminal. Who
could have done it? Cox seemed a likable sort. Always kind and jolly
with the young people, and all that."

"And how was it done?" added Allen. "I mean, how could anyone find
opportunity to commit such a crime without being seen?"

"The decks were all pretty much empty," Craig asserted. "The Fourth
of July luncheon, you know, took people down to the dining rooms who
usually lunched outside. Pity Cox hadn't gone down."

"That crime was the result of deep premeditation," Allen observed. "If
the villain hadn't pulled it off when he did, he would have managed it
later. I'm of the opinion Cox was doomed before ever he set foot on
board."

Pollard Nash said nothing, but he listened intently, and one thing that
grounded itself in his intelligence was that Mr. Allen seemed to know a
lot about it all.

And just then a steward came to Nash and in low tones asked him to
come, at the Captain's bidding, to his office.

Without a word, Nash left the room, his hopes high that he might be
asked to help investigate the matter.

Nor was he doomed to disappointment.

The Captain, looking dejected and despairing, greeted him with a nod
and offered a seat. In the room were also the First Officer and the
Doctor.

"We're up against it, Mr. Nash," the Captain said. "As you know, of
course, I have full power on my ship, I am the sole authority, and all
that. But how can I punish a malefactor if I don't know who he is? And
detective work, even in its most amateur form is out of my line. But
I've heard you're interested in it, and more or less experienced--."

"Interested, yes, Captain, but experienced, no," said Nash, seriously,
as Captain Van Winkle paused. "But if I can help in any way--."

"I hope you can--I hope you can," the Captain repeated, looking at
Nash. "I don't mean regular Scotland Yard work; that will come after
we land, but if you could do the investigating that is, I believe,
considered so necessary to be accomplished at the very first. In fact,
Mr. Nash, what I want of you is a sort of First Aid. Your trained eye
will doubtless see things that are not discernible to me or to my
officers. None of us has any talent of this sort--and I'm sure it is a
talent. Will you help me out?"

"To the best and farthest extent of my ability, Captain," cried Pollard
Nash, enthusiastically. "I'm glad to look into it all, for it is most
mysterious and desperately interesting. Shall I have full swing, within
reason, of course, and shall I report directly to you?"

"Report to me, yes. As to full swing--does that entail inconvenience to
passengers?"

"That remains to be seen." Nash spoke gravely. "You realize, of
course, Captain, that if this murder--it _is_ murder?" He looked at
the Captain and at the doctor, who both nodded, "that this murder must
have been committed by some one on board. Then, if clues, whether true
or false, point toward an individual, they must be followed down, even
at the cost of inconvenience or even offence to that individual or his
companions. You see?"

"Yes. But before making individual investigations, confer with me."

"That, of course. Now, tell me, do you know what weapon was used?"

"We do," and the Captain nodded at the doctor.

Whereupon Doctor Bowers, removed a cloth from as terrible looking an
object as Pollard Nash had ever looked upon.

It was the Bronze Hand--the awful, clutching, clawing hand of bronze
that Oscar Cox had exhibited one day in the Smoking Room, and had
descanted on to an interested group of listeners.

"The Bronze Hand!" and Nash recoiled from the sight.

For it was still bedaubed with blood, now partly dried and encrusted,
but which gave it a far more horrible and ghastly look than the mere
cruelty of the grasping bronze.

"You've seen it before?" the Captain asked.

"Oh, yes. Cox showed it to a lot of us. He called it both his mascot
and his hoodoo."

"What did he mean by that?"

"I'm not quite sure, but he seemed to attach a supernatural
significance to the thing, though at the same time, he hooted at such
magics."

"It was his property, then?"

"Oh, yes. And a valuable bit, I think." Nash shuddered as he glanced
again at the awful object. "It's enormously heavy, you know."

"Yes. It made a diabolically perfect instrument of death. It was
found on the floor, nearby the dead man. I had Garson pick it up with
tongs--I know enough to look out for finger-prints."

"Good!" cried Nash, "are there any on it?"

"That we haven't investigated as yet. Perhaps you'll look after that?"

But Nash was already scrutinizing the bronze.

"I think there are none," he said, regretfully. "But, of course, the
demon mind that contrived and carried out this crime, was too wise to
leave finger-prints. We could scarcely expect it."

"Then you think it was a preconceived deed, and not a sudden,
passionate anger on the part of some--servant, say--or steward?"

"It's too soon to decide that, Captain. As you know, the first thing to
do is question everybody who can by any possibility tell us anything
worth hearing. But before that, may I see the body?"

"Certainly. It is in Mr. Cox's own stateroom."

"And the disposal of it?"

"I shall have it embalmed, we have facilities on board--and take it
on to Liverpool. There my responsibility for it will end. Also will
end my responsibility in the whole matter, for the authorities will
take it over. But it is my duty to do all I can here and now to learn
the identity of the criminal. That is where I ask your help. You
will--er--of course, be duly--."

"Never mind that part, Captain. If I succeed in finding the villain it
will be time enough to talk about remuneration. Just give me a free
hand, under your approval, and let me do what I can, in my own way."

Captain Van Winkle, reader of men, liked the attitudes of this young
and amateur detective. Not cocky and self-assured as a professional
might be, not full of bumptious enthusiasm as a beginner sometimes is;
but sane, rational and moderately hopeful, Nash inspired confidence and
hope in the heart of the harassed Captain of the _Pinnacle_.

Doctor Bowers led the way to the locked stateroom of the late Oscar Cox
and opened the door to Nash.

As the two men entered, Hudder appeared, apparently from nowhere, and
begged that he might go in, too.

"Certainly," said Nash, in answer to the doctor's inquiring glance.
"Why not?"

So the three men went in, and Nash bolted the door.

But when Bowers turned down the covering sheet, one glance was enough
for Pollard Nash. Too much, indeed. He turned away hastily, and went to
the open porthole.

"My God, man!" he cried, "only that devilish Bronze Hand could have
compassed such a death as that! Only a Bengal Tiger could compete with
it! I had but a momentary glance, yet I took it all in. It is eternally
photographed on my brain. I never need look again. I have seen the
body!"

He sank into an arm chair, for Oscar Cox's stateroom was one of the
best on the boat, and buried his face in his hands.

"Give me a minute," he said, "just a minute. There, I'm all right now."

The noiseless and ubiquitous Hudder offered him a glass of water from
the private bathroom adjoining, and inquired solicitously if he would
have some spirits in it.

"No," said Nash, staring at this man, who was positively usurping the
prerogatives of a host. "No, Hudder. Stand still, I want to talk to
you."

Hudder stood still, and at attention, while Nash fairly fired questions
at him.

"Where was Mr. Cox bound for?"

"London."

"On what errand?"

"Business--so far as I know."

"But you don't think it was entirely or only business!" Nash was
intuitive.

"I don't. But I know nothing."

"Were you to go with him wherever he went?"

"Wherever he went?"

"Yes, wherever he went. Or, were you to return to America after the
ocean trip was finished?"

Hudder stared.

"I supposed I was to go wherever Mr. Cox went. I heard nothing to make
me think otherwise."

For some reason Hudder chose not to use his "sir" with the young man.

Nash neither noticed nor cared for the omission.

"Why do you think there was something other than business in Mr. Cox's
plans abroad?"

Now there was something compelling in Nash's manner. An urge, an
impetus to talk. Had he been called upon to explain it, he would have
said that his own eagerness, his insistence on a reply, brought forth
the reply even against the will of the speaker.

And so, Hudder, almost involuntarily, expanded a little.

"I don't exactly know, but there was a kind of suppressed excitement,
a smothered anticipation in my master's manner at times, that I can
explain in no other way, except that he looked forward to some pleasure
or some honor to be given him in London."

"You are an educated man, Hudder. You have a vocabulary."

As this called for no direct response it received none.

Doctor Bowers, deeply interested, sat on the edge of his chair, taking
it all in. So this was the way detectives worked! H'm.

"Did Mr. Cox expect to be killed by that bronze hand?" Nash returned to
his volleying system.

"Oh, no, sir!"

"Why did he carry it about with him?"

"I only know that he was fond of it, alway had it by him, and said it
would be a means of defence against burglars or marauders."

"I see. And it proved a means of attack instead of defence. How did the
murderer get it, Hudder?"

"I've no idea, sir. Mr. Cox always kept it lying on his dresser, or on
his night table."

"I see. And it was in place this morning--do you know?"

"I think so, sir." Hudder began to realize Nash's worth. "But I'm so
accustomed to the sight of it, it might have been missing and I not
notice it."

"That sounds paradoxical, but I know what you mean. The things we
always see about us, seem to be there whether we see them or not."

Doctor Bowers laughed. "Your statement is not much more lucid than
Hudder's, Mr. Nash. But I think I see what you both mean."

"Of course you do," Nash returned, "and that is, that anyone could have
stepped in and taken the bronze hand--the door was not kept locked, was
it Hudder?"

"No sir, Mr. Cox never locked his stateroom door. His valuables were in
his trunk," Hudder nodded toward a large Innovation in the corner of
the room, "except what he had put in the Purser's safe."

"Yes. As I say, anyone could step in and pick up the hand, pocket it,
and pass on, without causing comment, even if seen."

"But who did?" asked the doctor.

"That's our problem. But a preliminary is to see how it could be done,
and we've at least seen how the weapon could have been obtained. It may
be it wasn't done that way, at all. Maybe Mr. Cox gave the hand or lent
it to someone he knew. Or it may be he had it with him on deck, showing
it, say, to somebody. But the hand was here within the last day or
two, eh, Hudder?"

"Oh, yes, certainly. And I'm pretty sure it was here this morning."

"Call the Room Steward."

The response to this was the appearance of a big, stolid-looking fellow
named Andrews.

He declared that he was certain the bronze hand was on Mr. Cox's table
when he had done up the room that morning.

He remembered it especially, wondering why the gentleman should want
such a fearsome looking thing about.

"Did you think it fearsome, Andrews, even before it was used to harm
Mr. Cox?"

"I did, sir. It was an evil-looking hand. A hand that meant trouble."

"Imaginative nature," Nash murmured. "When were you in here, Andrews?"

"About ten or eleven o'clock. I go my rounds then. Mr. Cox generally is
out of his room by ten."

"Did you see him this morning?"

"Yes, sir. I always bring him coffee at eight."

"He seemed just as usual?"

"Just exactly, sir. Gay like, because he said it was his country's
birthday. And he gave me a pound."

"You noticed nothing different from his usual manner?" and Nash turned
to Hudder.

"Nothing at all. He gave me a present, too. He alway does on Fourth of
July."

"I see. That will do, Andrews, you may go, for the present. I'll see
you again. Now, Hudder, what men on board did Mr. Cox know best?"

"I don't know."

"I think you do. At least, to some extent. And let me tell you right
now, Hudder, you're in a peculiar position. You're the only man on
this boat who knew Mr. Cox intimately. I mean in a personal--a very
personal way. So you will be questioned a great deal, both on board,
and after we arrive in Liverpool. If you'll take my advice, you'll tell
a perfectly true story and stick straight to it. You can be a lot of
help to us, or you can be a hindrance. And I warn you, if you choose
the latter rôle, you'll find yourself in deep waters. Understand?"

It was plain to be seen that Hudder did understand, but he merely drew
his head back, in that peculiar way he had, and said, stiffly:

"Yes sir."

"All right, I'm glad you do. Now, then, what men on this boat sometimes
came into this room--into Mr. Cox's stateroom?"

"How can I tell that? I was not here when my master had guests."

"What men came into this room?" repeated Nash, and again his power of
compelling a reply showed its force.

"Mr. Craig," Hudder said, with obvious reluctance.

"Go on."

"And Mr. Allen and Mr. Camper. I don't remember of any more."

"Very well, if you really don't. But don't hold back any names, as you
value your own well-being."

"And Mr. Trent and Mr. Mallory and yourself," Hudder brought out with a
jerk, as if emptying a pitcher of its last drop.

Nash laughed.

"Mallory and I were here once," he said to Bowers. "And I think Trent
perhaps once or twice. I think I can eliminate the three of us from any
list of suspects. Any more, Hudder?"

"Not that I know of. Mr. Cox may have had others that I didn't see."

Nash nodded, sure now, that Hudder was telling all he knew on this
subject.

"Next thing," he said, with a serious glance at Doctor Bowers, "is
the matter of Mr. Cox's private papers. It is necessary that they be
gone through, and if the Captain hasn't time, I suppose he will depute
you or the First Officer to help me. I shouldn't like to take the
responsibility alone. Hudder, where are Mr. Cox's papers?"

"Papers?"

"I'll throw a boot-jack at you if you don't stop that parrot repetition
of my words! I hate it! Yes, papers--see, papers. Where are Mr. Cox's
personal and private papers, and don't you dare say 'papers'!"

"In his trunk, sir," and Hudder was again the wooden, impassive servant.

"Oh, they are. Which compartment?"

"Here," and Hudder went to the trunk. He approached it on tiptoe, as if
afraid of a reprimand from the still, covered shape on the bed.

"There is a drawer, you see, that has been fitted with a Yale lock.
The--what you want, sir, is in there."

"Yes, and where is the key?"

"In--in Mr. Cox's pocket, sir."

"Get it out."

But this was too much. Hudder bolted from the room.




                              CHAPTER VI

                              THE GLOVES


"Just as well he's out of the way," Nash said, as the door closed
behind the retreating servant. "Will you get the key, Doctor? I--I
can't."

Not sharing the layman's unreasoning horror of death, Doctor Bowers
extracted a bunch of keys from Cox's pocket, and the two men examined
the contents of the locked drawer of the trunk.

"No Letter of Credit or Express checks or anything that represents
money," said Nash, as he ran over a few papers the place contained.
"Such things he has doubtless put in the ship's safe. Here's his
Passport, and a lot of receipted bills, and a few letters--."

"Let's look at the Passport," said Bowers.

But from that document they learned nothing that they did not already
know, except that Cox was fifty-one years old, and that his object in
going abroad was set down as "Travel."

"Here are some cards of London shops and other business addresses,"
Nash said, "mostly clothiers or men's furnishings."

"What are the bills?" asked the doctor, who began to think there
wasn't much detective work going on. At least, none of a brilliant
nature.

The bills were all from New York shops.

Almost all were from tailors or jewelers.

"To show the Customs people, when he comes home," Nash said. "He wears
a lot of jewelry, good stuff too. See, these bills are old, but here's
his pearl set of evening studs and buttons, and his ring and some pins.
But, Good Lord, look at this!"

He held out to the eyes of the other a bill of very recent date from a
Fifth Avenue jeweler.

It itemized a pearl necklace, with square diamond clasp at fifty
thousand dollars; a shoulder buckle of diamonds and sapphires, at ten
thousand dollars, and three diamond bracelets at five thousand dollars
apiece.

"Whew!" exclaimed the doctor. "What does this mean? I'm not surprised
at his buying the things for I've heard he's a multi-millionaire, but
where are they?"

"If on board, they're in the ship's safe," said Nash, eying the bill.
"But more likely he gave them to some fair dame before he started."

"Why are the bills here then?"

"Might be lots of reasons. Maybe he made the presentation the night
before he sailed, and so had the bills still in his pocket-book. Well,
even for a gay dog--which he never seemed to me to be--this is going
some!"

"You don't think he was fond of the ladies?"

"Not to this extent. I mean, I didn't think so. This looks as if he
was. But on board, though he fooled around with those flappers, it was
always in a nice bachelor uncle sort of way--."

"He wasn't a bachelor."

"No, but he'd been a widower fifteen years, he told me, and somehow he
had taken on bachelor airs. Well, this bill gives us a side-light on
his character, whether it is of any help to us or not."

"Perhaps that Hudder person will know who was or is to be the recipient
of these trinkets."

"It's not easy, I find, to pry information out of that automaton. But
I may be able to surprise or scare it out of him. He won't answer
questions put in the ordinary way."

"Here's a letter of introduction."

"Not social or personal," Nash said, glancing at it. "Merely a
recommendation to a tailor."

"Great dresser, Cox."

"All of that. Well, let's see if his personal belongings tell us any
secrets."

But the toilet appointments and carefully put away underclothing and
haberdashery gave up only the evidence that they were the property
of a rich man of fine tastes and punctilious neatness. Shirts were
monogrammed, handkerchiefs were fit for a Beau Brummel, the silk hose
could be drawn through a ring and the neckties might have been selected
by an artist.

Checks for other trunks that were in the hold appeared, also for
hatboxes and various cases.

"He's taking enough luggage not to buy anything over there," Bowers
grunted. "Why such a terrible lot of stuff?"

"He was an extravagant nature all through," Nash asserted. "Look at
this dispatch case and these collar and cuff boxes--all of the finest
leather with gold monograms. Even his shoe-trees are made to order.
Without being what is termed a dandy, Oscar Cox was one of the most
luxurious dressers I have ever seen."

"But everything seems to be new," said Bowers, thoughtfully.

"Not everything. And it's quite in keeping that he should renew things
before they were worn, not after."

"Well, we've struck no money at all, not even chicken feed for use on
the boat. He must have some about."

"Belt, probably. You'll have to get that."

"The man to embalm the body will be here shortly. Can't you wait for
him?"

"Yes, certainly. It does seem ghoulish, doesn't it? I say, Doctor,
it's all terribly queer. I mean a murder, with no police, no coroner,
no real detectives, no witnesses--bah, how can the criminal ever be
discovered?"

"Yet, on the other hand, how it is narrowed down, compared to a murder
on land. Here, the murderer is necessarily on this ship. Within a few
hundred yards of us this very minute. And, he can't get away! Surely
that ought to make it easy to find him."

"Surely it doesn't! Why, we've no idea, except for a few, what men on
board Cox knew. We don't know but he had an enemy in the second or
third cabin or even in the crew. We don't know but he had those gems on
him, and was murdered for those. In a word, we know almost nothing of
the man, and apparently can find out nothing. You must admit that isn't
a hopeful outlook. On land, there are friends, relatives, associates,
who may be questioned. On board, everyone lives in select privacy,
if he chooses, and no one knows anything about the man in the next
stateroom to his own."

"All true--I hadn't seen it in just that light."

"That's the light it's in. As you say, the man who clawed Oscar Cox's
face with that awful bronze is even now on board, and separated from us
by only a few wooden walls. But he's as secure from suspicion--I mean,
he probably is--as if he were on another ship. Why, in a house, or
in a room, all present may be catechised, for all present have common
cause with the victim, in that they are in the same place, and for the
same reason. But here--it's like a whole town and there are as many
human being's on board as may be found in a small town--you can't ask
questions of people who hadn't even nodding acquaintance with Cox."

"What, then? Give up all hope of finding out the truth?"

"No, not that. But it depends largely on chance information, and
on--oh, it calls for the work of a real detective--a big one. I'm the
merest novice, I've had almost no experience--it wants a super-Sherlock
Holmes, not an ignorant beginner."

Nash's tones were so earnest, the doctor didn't affront him with mild
compliments or protestations of faith in his powers.

He nodded his head, and Nash went on: "I was pleased and flattered
when the Captain asked me to look into the matter, but Lordy, it's a
huckleberry above my persimmons! I'm not lying down on the job, and
I may have a streak of luck--but I sure recognize my own inadequacy.
Guess I'll talk it over with Trent, he's a writer of mystery yarns."

"Does that give him a working knowledge of cases?"

"Not necessarily. But he may give me a steer. I'll put it to the
Captain, and if he doesn't mind, I'll call Trent in conference."

"All right, Mr. Nash. And here are the men from the surgery. I'll stay
with them and whatever we find on Mr. Cox's person in the way of money
belt or other personal effects, I'll turn over to the Captain and you
can see them."

Nash obtained a short interview with Captain Van Winkle at once, but
was asked to wait until evening before opening the packets Cox had
deposited in the safe.

"We must wireless his people," the Captain said, looking harassed.
"But he seems uncommonly short of people. That man of his says there
are no relatives on the face of the globe, that he knows of. We can't
reach any business addresses until tomorrow, and there's only his
home address left. But, still, according to Hudder, that's a bachelor
apartment house, and his apartment is closed for the summer. No use
wirelessing a caretaker and that Hudder vows he doesn't know the name
or address of Cox's lawyer. I never heard of a human being so utterly
alone, apparently. Any help from his papers?"

"Not those in his stateroom. Perhaps from a money belt--and there's the
safe."

"Yes. Come to my office directly after dinner, will you?"

"Yes, Captain, and may I bring Max Trent?"

"Who's he?"

Nash explained and was permitted, even urged to bring Trent.

Captain Van Winkle was a man of sound sense, and not above asking help
when needed, and when he had faith in his helpers.

Nash went away, and was immediately joined by Mallory, who had been
waiting for him. Together they made their way toward where Trent's
chair was located.

Not uninterruptedly, however. Groups of people stopped them, others
waylaid them and it was well nigh impossible to shake them off.

Nash shuddered as he was forced to pass the place where Cox's chair
had been. And near there, Lily Gibbs stopped him, and said pleadingly,
"Dear Mr. Nash, do give us some news. Think how anxious we are to know
what's being done toward finding the slayer of dear Mr. Cox."

"And how should I know?" Nash asked, a little brusquely.

"Oh, now, now!" and Miss Gibbs shook a finger at him, "a little bird
told me that you were investigating! That you are a regular Sherlock,
and you're surely going to bring the miscreant to justice."

Nash had never liked the woman, still less did he like her mode of
address, but it occurred to him, that whatever news or rumor might be
afloat on the ship, she would know of it, and he felt he must glean
every possible bit of information that might help him.

So he stopped, and Mallory with him, and talked to Miss Gibbs.

"You overrate my ability, dear lady," he said, "but I think we all want
to find the criminal if we can. Not I alone, but all the passengers on
the _Pinnacle_ want that."

"All except one," said Lily Gibbs, dryly.

"Point well taken. Yes, all except one. Or more, if he had
confederates."

"You know, Mr. Nash, what he was killed with?"

"What?" Nash was determined to be noncommittal.

"That terrible bronze hand! Do you remember the night I examined
it--Mr. Cox showed it to us--and I said it was an evil hand? The lines
in that palm were evil lines--remember?"

"Yes, Miss Gibbs, I do remember. And you were a true prophet. Can you
see anything more--clairvoyantly, I mean--as to the crime?"

Amy Camper, who sat near, rose and stood by Lily's side. Her husband
remained in his chair, but he was listening.

"Not here and now," Miss Gibbs replied, in a low, tense voice. "But
later I will try--I may--."

"Now, Lily," exclaimed Mrs. Camper, rather crossly, "don't mix in with
any of that foolishness. Tell her, Mr. Nash, that it is out of place in
real detective work."

"What do you think about it all, Mrs. Camper?" said Nash, ignoring her
request. "What does your husband think? You two sat near Mr. Cox every
day--you knew him fairly well, didn't you?"

"We sat no nearer to him than you did, Mr. Nash," Amy Camper seemed a
little ruffled. "Yours and Mr. Mallory's chairs are just the other side
of his."

"Yes, but we are not often in our chairs. We're birds of passage. You
and Mr. Camper spend most of your time in yours."

"But not most of our time talking to Mr. Cox," she returned with
spirit. "Indeed, he devoted a lot of time to that gang of flappers who
everlastingly hung round him."

"Do you know what I think?" said Owen Camper, rising and coming slowly
over to them, "I think that hand--that bronze horror, was flung at
him--."

"Flung!" cried Mallory, "I never thought of that!"

"Yes; flung, say, by some one in sudden anger, not meaning to kill the
man."

"But who would do it!"

"Might have been that queer dick of a servant, the one Cox called
Hudder."

"He is devoted to his master," Nash put in.

"Oh, you can't tell. He seems so--but who knows? For that matter, who
knows anything about Cox, anyway? Anything much, that is."

"I thought you knew him pretty well, Mr. Camper," Nash said, quietly.

"Not well, no. I met him a few times at one or two clubs in New York,
and I've seen him at ball games now and then. But we were not what you
could call friends, scarcely acquaintances."

"Was he fond of ladies' society?" Nash pursued.

"That I don't know anything about. As I say, I've only seen him among
men. He was a general favorite, except once in a while when he would
fall into a boasting vein. Then he was insufferable."

"What do you know of his nephew?"

"Nephew?"

"Yes, nephew and namesake."

"Oh, you mean the young chap who was so wicked and then reformed. I've
heard of him but I never saw him. I don't know where he lives, I'm
sure."

"The difficulty is to know to whom to wireless the news of Cox's
death," Nash said, watching Camper closely.

"What! Doesn't anybody know anything about his people? Not Hudder?"

"Can't seem to get definite information," Nash said, and then, turning
sharply on his heel, he went off and Mallory followed.

A moment later they met Mr. Allen and Mr. Mason, and this time Nash
paused of his own accord.

"Can either of you men advise me?" he began. "The Captain has been kind
enough to ask me to help him look into the Cox matter a little, and I'm
terribly afraid I can't make much headway. Mr. Cox seems to have been
very much alone on board."

"Lots of us are," said Mason, looking keenly at the earnest young man.
"What do you want to know, especially?"

"Some relative or friend in New York to whom to wireless the news of
his death. Tomorrow, it will reach the papers, but if we could get in
touch with his people tonight, it would seem more circumspect to advise
them first, don't you think?"

"It does seem so, to be sure," Allen agreed. "But I've no knowledge of
his home affairs, have you, Mason?"

"No, except that he didn't have any. I mean, he lived alone, and I
never heard of any relatives. His wife died years ago--."

"Is he interested in--in any lady now?" said Nash, quickly.

"Not that I know of," returned Allen, and Mason shook his head in
agreement.

"He had parties--," Nash suggested.

"Parties? Orgies!" and Allen laughed. "I went only once, but that was
enough for me! He struck the high spots when it came to entertaining!"

"Then he was a man who may have made enemies?"

"Well, not on account of his parties. For those who like wild times,
they were just about what they'd like. And more mildly inclined
revelers didn't have to go. At least, not more than once." Allen smiled
as if at amusing recollections of his experience there.

"I knew Cox a little in a business way," Mason volunteered. "We had
a few deals together in some mining operations and in an oil field.
But it was several years ago. He became much richer since. However, I
know nothing at all of his private life, and I've never heard anything
against the man in his business or social relations. I've not talked
with him much on this trip, because he favored the younger element so
strongly--a phase of life very distasteful to me."

Mason evinced so strong a distaste for the Younger Generation that Nash
almost laughed at him, and Mallory set him down for a first-class prig.

"But can't you advise me, Mr. Allen, how to go about getting in touch
with the right persons? What about his lawyer? His banker?"

"Better try a Club, I should say. Try the Millennium Club. I'm pretty
sure he was a member of that."

"Good idea. We can advise them and ask them to notify the proper
persons."

The two younger men passed on, and Allen said, musingly, to Mason:

"Unique case, isn't it? Murder on the high seas--I mean on a modern
liner, is almost unheard of. We might be on a Pirate ship!"

"Yes, and the brutal means employed! Surely it is the work of a fiend
in human shape. Poe's ape would fit into the case better."

"Doubtless done by some deck hand or sailor, who knew just when to
strike."

"And the motive?"

"Oh, robbery, of course. We all know so little about Cox, that we
don't know what he had on him or with him in the way of valuables. But
I'm told that he frequently went down to the second and third cabins
and also down among the sailors and stokers, and gave them money in
some cases. It is not improbable that some one of them, ungrateful or
jealous, sneaked up and did for him."

"It might be," Mason looked interested, "for the weapon was ready at
hand."

"Did Cox have it on deck this morning?"

"I suppose so. He often did, and if not, how did the assailant get it?"

"It's all very mysterious. And there's the other angle, that it was
done by one of ourselves. I mean by someone in the first cabin. How
do we know what men on board knew Cox far better than we did? With
hundreds of people on these upper decks, a secret enemy would never be
known or suspected, if he kept his own counsel."

"You mean some one Cox knew?"

"It may be. I'm only surmising. But the field of surmise is so wide,
so boundless, that, to my mind, there's practically no chance of
discovering the murderer."

"It seems so," Mason agreed. "I think the most astute sleuth would be
baffled by such a problem. Come on down for a cocktail, it's nearing
dinner time."

Nash and Mallory, on their way, were again interrupted by an onslaught
from the bunch of young people who had been Cox's special friends.

There were about a dozen of them, girls and boys both, and they
surrounded the two men with a demand for news.

"We know you know things," Sally Barnes declared, "and you've got to
tell us. It's our right. Mr. Cox was our friend, and we ought to know
all there is to know."

"There's practically nothing to know," said Nash, gently raising her
hand from his coat sleeve and giving it back to her as if it were a
declined gift.

"Oh, yes, there is, and if you don't tell us, we'll worm it out of Miss
Gibbs. I saw her vamping you back there!"

"Do get it from her! That's a fine idea. She'll probably be able to
tell you a lot more than I can."

"Yes," Sally pouted, "but her tell won't be true."

"Neither will mine, for I shall have to make it up if I tell you
anything."

"Oh, bother!" cried Sally, and turned to Hal Mallory, as Nash went on
down the deck.

"You tell me, Mr. Mall," she said, sidling close to him, and drawing
him away from the rest of her crowd.

"Mr. Nash spoke the truth when he said there's nothing to tell," Hal
told her gravely. "I think, Miss Barnes, you young people might at
least show the dead the respect of silence on this awful subject.
There's no reason you should forgo any of your pleasures or sports, for
Mr. Cox was merely a fellow passenger, but as he was also your friend,
I think it would be better taste for you not to be gossiping about the
affair."

"Gossiping!" and Sally looked at him curiously. "Why, if talking about
the murder is gossiping, then everybody on board is doing the same
thing. And you bet he was my friend! Why, Mr. Cox told me things he
wouldn't tell anybody else."

"He did! What sort of things?"

"Oh, that wakes you up, does it? Look here, Mr. Mallory, which is the
detective one of you two smart Alecks? You or Mr. Nash?"

"Both of us--."

"I know. But I mean which is the Sherlock and which the Watson?"

"Oh, we're not a real firm like that. Nash and I consult together about
things."

"Yes, but which is the detective? You?"

"Yes, if you will put it that way."

Mallory indulged in this bit of prevarication, hoping to find out if
the girl really knew anything of importance, which he could, of course,
pass on to Nash.

But his hesitancy enlightened Sally.

"I don't think you are," she said, with a positive wagging of her
bobbed head. "I think Mr. Nash is. If he will listen to me, I will tell
him something. If not, he can go without."

"Hey, Polly, wait a minute," called out Mallory, for Nash, having
shaken off the youngsters, was looking back for his friend. "Come here,
will you?"

The two men and Sally retreated to a sheltered corner, and Sally said,
seriously, "I have a clue, Mr. Nash, and I want you to take it and find
the bad man who killed Mr. Cox."

The quiet simplicity of her statement made Nash look at her in
amazement. Usually she was so boisterous and frivolous.

"Yes, Miss Barnes," he said, "I shall be glad indeed to see your clue."

In her rather capacious deck-bag Sally fished about until she found a
small parcel wrapped in crumpled tissue paper.

"There!" she said, with a look of triumph, "there!"

Shielded from view of passers-by, Nash unrolled the paper and found
a pair of kid gloves, tightly rolled up and as he examined them, he
discovered they were men's gloves, of tan kid, of light weight and fine
workmanship.

One of them showed a few reddish stains, and the other, a slight blur
that might have come from being so closely wrapped up with the stained
one.

Nash gazed at them, and said, in low tone, "Where did you get these?"

"I was just down in the third cabin," Sally explained, "taking some
Fourth of July goodies to the kiddies down there. Two women were
looking at these gloves. They said the parcel had been thrown from an
upper deck and, sucked in by the breeze or by the ship's motion, had
fallen right at their feet. I offered them a dollar for the parcel, and
they were glad to take it. That's all."




                              CHAPTER VII

                          THE JEWELER'S BILL


"You're a bright child," said Nash, rolling the gloves up quickly and
stuffing the parcel in his pocket. "Come along with us, while we talk
to Mr. Trent."

"No," Sally said, shaking her curly bob, "he thinks I'm a little fool.
You tell him about the gloves, and you smarties dope it all out--the
murder business, I mean--and then, if you want any more clues found,
you just tell me and I'll find them."

With a saucy move, she turned away and went dancing down the deck.

"Queer little thing," Nash said, "but clever as they come."

"Oh, well, getting the gloves from the steerage women wasn't so
terribly clever," Mallory returned. "The cleverness will be when
you announce from a study of those gloves the age, sex and previous
condition of the murderer. Hello, here's Trent alone. Good work!"

Max Trent, his cap well down over his eyes, was lying back in his
steamer chair, apparently doing nothing. In point of fact, he was
waiting for Maisie Forman to come out on deck, and though that
required no physical exertion, his brain and eke his heart were jumping
with eager anticipation.

But the girl did not appear, and Nash dropped into her vacant chair
as he began to talk to Trent. Most of the passengers had gone in to
dress for dinner, and the three men, conversing in low tones, ran small
chance of being overheard.

Nash put it plainly to Max Trent that he desired his help or at least
the benefit of his advice, for the Captain had asked him to do what he
could in the way of investigation and he had the Captain's permission
to get Trent to work with him.

"You see," Nash went on, "it's the Captain's duty to record all these
happenings and to do what he can to apprehend the criminal. But he
can't take the time to do regular detective work, nor does he know
how to go about it. He has none of the sleuth instinct nor has he
any real responsibility, save as the facts are presented to him. At
least, that's what I gather. And between you and me, Captain Van
Winkle, though a gallant and experienced sailor, has small knowledge of
Scotland Yard procedure. So, as I'm intensely interested in this thing,
I'm hoping you are, too, and that together we can find the man who
killed Oscar Cox."

"I am interested--deeply," Trent replied. "I've been thinking it over
all the afternoon. But it's like looking for a needle in a haystack.
On land, there are certain people or groups of people who know the
dead man, who can be called for examination, who will give information
that may be of utmost value. But here on this ship, we have no such
opportunities. So far as we know, Oscar Cox had few acquaintances, save
those he made since we sailed from New York. Yet, he may have had--must
have had, on board, some enemy who hated him enough to kill him. Now,
how can we learn who that enemy was? How discern among a thousand or
more First Class passengers, which one knew Cox and had sufficient
grudge against him to kill him? For, as you must see, the crime was
the work of a master mind. Whoever killed Cox was a genius. He chose
the psychological moment, when everyone, nearly, was off the deck, and
on the way down to lunch. Moreover, they were all engrossed in the
hullaballoo of the holiday celebration and the opportunity was ideal
for the criminal's purpose."

"Also," Nash put in, not willing that Trent should do all the talking,
"he was clever enough to leave no foot-prints or finger marks, and no
clues of any sort."

"You mean, none that we've found," Trent corrected. "It is said there
are always clues, if one can see them."

"And if one can read them," added Nash. "Look here." He drew from his
pocket the parcel Sally had given him.

Trent unrolled it, and gazed at the gloves with interest.

"If these are the murderer's gloves," he said, after a moment, "they
prove afresh that the crime was carefully thought out. For these are
new gloves with no marks of wear or usage that might give us a hint of
their owner. Also, it is quite possible that the murderer stole or in
some way procured the gloves of another man. Miss Barnes did right in
getting them from the women below, and I have not the slightest doubt
that they were worn by the murderer when he committed his dastardly
crime. But I hold that even Sherlock himself could not deduce from
them anything of importance. They were worn, of course, to avoid any
finger-prints on the bronze. I think we are not going too fast when we
assume the Bronze Hand was the instrument and that it was wielded by a
man with murderous intent."

"Or a woman," Hal Mallory said. "There is no reason, on the face of
things, why a woman should not have done the deed. Although the idea
is shocking, women murderers have been known, and, given sufficient
motive, a woman could have committed this crime. The weight of that
bronze is enough to kill, without such very great force behind it. And
as we are utterly at sea, there's no reason for exclusively suspecting
a man."

"You're quite right, Mr. Mallory," Trent said, gravely. "Now, as I see
this thing, we cannot depend on clues at all. I mean material clues.
To my mind the gloves indicate little of definite importance. If they
belonged to the murderer, then he was a man, and presumably a man of
our own class. Indeed, for that matter, it would have been difficult
if not impossible for a man from a lower class cabin or from the crew
to get up here. Yet, if such a thing did occur, then the villain stole
these gloves from some gentleman, or they were given to him. But I
can't see a clever, ingenious crime, as this one surely is, committed
by other than an intellectual and hundred per cent. efficient mind.

"I agree," and Nash nodded. "However much a brute from below may have
wanted to kill Oscar Cox, how could he get up here, just at that
particular moment--?"

"Oh, come, now," Mallory said, "it could have been done. Suppose it was
a steward or a deck hand--I mean the ones who swab down and all that.
One such could come up here unnoticed, if he watched his opportunity.
Who of us would pay any attention to the sailors or workmen who attend
to routine duties? To be sure, we would notice one now; but before the
tragedy, dozens of them might come and go, and we wouldn't even see
them, unless they bothered us in some way."

"True enough," Trent said, thoughtfully. "But all the same, it connotes
to my mind a mentality far above any sailor or deckhand. The man who
could conceive and carry out this thing, ought to be found in a high
position of some sort."

"As Mr. Dooley used to say, 'Yer remarks are inthrestin' but not
convincin','" Nash said with a smile. "Now, to me, it seems that the
criminal had this one set purpose, that he bent every effort and
every circumstance toward its accomplishment, and that he need not,
necessarily, have had cleverness or brilliancy in any other direction."

"I'm glad we do take different views, Nash," Trent said, cordially, "if
we're to work together, it will help us both to see it from various
angles. I'm keen to do what I can, but you must remember, that as a
detective, I've had positively no experience. My books are purely
imaginative. I have that twist in my brain that people call detective
instinct, but whether it's worth tuppence when put to actual test, I've
no idea. We see the Captain this evening?"

"Yes, right after dinner."

"There's much to ask him. I think I'll skip dinner, or have a bit sent
to my room, for I want to list out a few notes."

But on his way to his stateroom, Trent stopped at the Florist's shop
with which this Lady Liner was equipped, and bought a small pot of
blooming primroses, which he sent to Maisie Forman's room, with a
scribbled note.

And he was greatly pleased half an hour later, to get a short missive
saying Miss Forman was quite well, though unnerved by the awful tragedy
of the day. And that she would be glad to see him on deck the next
morning.

Trent put the little note carefully away, for he never had secrets
from himself and he owned right up that he was becoming more and more
interested in the girl.

Then, half smiling to himself at his new rôle of working detective,
instead of merely a chronicler, he made a systematic and methodical
_resumé_ of the case, as he knew it.

And he was forced to the conclusion that his knowledge was deplorably
limited.

He knew Oscar Cox was dead. He knew, almost to a certainty, that he was
killed by the bronze hand, his own property, which he treasured.

A whimsical idea passed through Trent's mind, of a headline, "Killed
By His Own Hand!" but he sternly brushed it aside, deprecating his too
active imagination which sometimes ran away with him.

And then, he realized, he had no more items of fact to list.

He ran over in his mind what he knew of Cox. He had seen him more
or less frequently in the smoking room. He remembered his genial
cordiality and unfailing good nature. If he had an enemy on board, it
was not one of the men with whom Trent had heard him converse.

As to the women. Cox was uniformly polite and even gallant, but Trent
had not noticed his especial attentions to any one woman on board.
Several had obtruded themselves on Cox's notice, such as Miss Gibbs
and her ilk, also mothers of eligible daughters, but Cox--and Trent
had seen him--waved them off with an airy indifference that usually
precluded further attempt at friendship.

And yet, though preposterous on the face of it, Mallory's hint of a
woman criminal must be considered. It would certainly be possible for
a woman to have accomplished the horrid deed, and as he knew, a woman
scorned is held up as the last analysis of Hell's fury.

Not, of course, the women he had been thinking of, who gayly made
advances to the jovial millionaire, but some woman who was in his life,
and who had, say, followed him on this trip with evil in her heart.

In that case, it would not be one of the women Cox had talked to, but
someone who had not spoken to him at all. Someone who knew him and whom
he knew, yet to whom he purposely appeared to be a stranger.

Well, Trent mused, there were probably a hundred who would fill these
specifications, so far as an outsider could see, and how could the
right one be discovered? Anyway, Trent didn't think it was a woman. Of
course, it might be, but first, he proposed to look for a man.

A man who knew Oscar Cox, but had not professed to. Who had a mortal
grievance of which Cox and himself only, of all on board, were aware.

Yet how to go about tracing such a one?

To begin, it must have been one who had access to Cox's room, with
sufficient intimacy to go in there and get the bronze hand. Trent
didn't think Cox had it with him on deck that morning, as it was not
a handy thing to carry about, and it had been shown so often to Cox's
acquaintances that they were all familiar with it.

Yet, how absurd, probably the man had not been in Cox's stateroom at
all, before he went in to get the instrument of death. A criminal of
his ability wouldn't.

Oh, well, as far as Trent could see, he could see nothing. It was all a
most impenetrable mystery. All he could do was to keep an open mind and
an alert brain to hear and make the most of what he might be told that
evening.

It was too big an affair for a novice to handle. He wished there was
a great detective on board, who would take up the case, and let him,
Trent, watch his working. That would be the ideal situation, thought
the writer of stories.

Then he remembered that the most mysterious crimes are often the
simplest of solution. This was comforting, though in no way a definite
help.

Deeply absorbed in his thoughts, Trent ate his dinner from the tray the
steward brought him, and then, concluding the time was ripe, he went to
the Captain's room and found the others already there.

Captain Van Winkle showed his usual suave and courteous demeanor, but
the observant Trent could see an underlying effect of resentment, as
if the Captain felt the unfairness of the fate that had thrust this
trouble upon him and his ship.

"I hope, Mr. Trent," he said, after a few words of greeting, "that
you and Mr. Nash can learn some facts or find some clues, even if you
do not identify the criminal. I feel that my responsibility does not
extend far in those directions. I shall enter all the facts in my log,
of course, and make my report to the Consul at Liverpool, who will take
up the matter in such wise as he sees fit. The Police will board the
ship and make their own investigations. They will conduct an Inquest or
not, as they deem best. The effects of Mr. Cox I shall turn over to the
Steamship authorities, or there will be whatever disposal of them the
Consul orders. That, gentlemen, is my duty in the matter, and it shall
be done. Now, if you can learn anything as to the motive for this crime
or the perpetrator of it, you will be conferring inestimable benefit on
the public at large, on the Steamship Company and on myself. You may
have the freedom of the vessel, with due care as to the rights of the
passengers, and you may call on any of the stewards or other hirelings
for any aid they can give you. I needn't say the officers will be glad
to help, if possible."

"In a word, Captain, you are deputing us to do what we can in the
matter of investigation and offer all facilities at your disposal."

"Exactly that, Mr. Trent."

"Then first of all, I think we must ask to see the property of Mr. Cox
which is in the ship's safe."

The Captain hesitated. "We are not the Police, Mr. Trent," he demurred;
"I admit I do not feel like opening Mr. Cox's sealed parcels."

"Then we can do nothing, Captain," Trent responded, promptly. "Those
deposits might explain matters to such an extent that we could put our
hand at once on the criminal's shoulder. A threatening letter, a bit of
a journal, a will or deposition of some sort. Unless we can know all
there is to be known of Oscar Cox, I cannot undertake to delve into the
mystery at all."

"Of course," Nash supplemented, "if there are only valuables, money,
bonds, jewels, or such, we would turn them back at once, to be sealed
for the authorities."

"And another thing, Captain," Trent said, "I understand there were
bills found in Mr. Cox's stateroom for very expensive jewels. He may
not have brought these gems on board, but if he did and if they are not
in the safe, they should be sought for. It must be remembered that the
murderer, and possibly the thief is on board this minute. He cannot get
away. We have three days to track him down. We may not be able to do
it, but we should, I think, be given every assistance in your power."

"You are right, Mr. Trent," Van Winkle said, thoughtfully. "I will send
for the Purser and get the articles Mr. Cox put in his care."

This was done, and when the packets were opened, everyone was excluded
from the room save Trent, Nash and the Captain himself.

"It is wise that no one else knows," Van Winkle said, "tongues will
babble."

It was not a large array of material that the investigators opened up.

There was a Letter of Credit from a New York Bank, but it was not for
an extravagant sum.

"At least it tells us his Bank," said Nash, with a nod of satisfaction.

Then there was a much-certified letter to a large bank in London, with
details of the transfer of a list of securities.

"That looks as if he meant to remain in London a long time. It is like
a general moving of his residence."

Another item of interest was the letter to Oscar Cox, from the Hotel
Britz, in London, stating that one of the best suites had been reserved
for him and his wife dating from the arrival of the _Pinnacle_.

"His wife!" exclaimed Nash. "Then he is married and she is awaiting him
in London!"

"Or Liverpool," suggested the Captain.

"Yes, one or the other--or maybe somewhere near London. Anyway, he was
married, the sly dog!"

"No real reason he should tell of it, if he didn't choose," said Trent,
sensibly enough. "Hello! here's a memorandum of those same jewels."

A small paper bore in Oscar Cox's fine, neat script, a list of one
pearl necklace, one shoulder buckle and three bracelets, all with the
same prices attached that had shown on the jeweler's bill. And this
list bore the caption, "For Her."

"H'm, small doubt those gems were for his wife--likely as not a bride,
or almost so. Now, where are those jewels?"

"How do you make her out a bride, if she's in England, and he just
sailed from America?"

"Several explanations for that. They were married and, say, expected to
sail. He was detained--of course this is mere suggestion--but for some
reason, she went on, and he followed as soon as he could."

"Why keep it secret?" asked the Captain.

"Lord, man! _I_ don't know! Perhaps for some reasons mixed up in the
mystery which brought about his death. Maybe he ran off with another
man's wife or sweetheart. Oh, the fact that he is married opens up an
illimitable field for conjecture."

"Maybe he wasn't married yet," remarked Nash. "Maybe he was to join the
lady in England and marry her and take her to the hotel where he had
reserved a suite of rooms. And maybe he was taking the jewels to her
for a wedding present."

"Not at all unlikely," Trent agreed. "That would explain the exceeding
newness of his clothing, for all the world like a bridegroom's outfit."

"Here's another paper," cried Nash, fingering an envelope. "By heavens,
it's his will!"

It proved to be a will, but a very informal one. Merely a single sheet
of paper, which set forth the fact that on the death of Oscar Cox,
everything of which he possessed should become the absolute property of
his wife, or if she should not be living at that time, then the estate
was to go to his relatives. No names were given of wife or kin. But the
document was duly witnessed, and Trent opined that it was a true and
legal will.

Except for a book of Travelers' checks and two First Class Railway
tickets from Liverpool to London, that was all of the lot.

"Why _two_ railroad tickets?" said Trent, curiously. "Looks as if he
expected to meet the lady in Liverpool."

"I think you've got the story wrong end to," Nash exclaimed. "He had
two tickets to London, because he expected his wife to accompany him
on this trip. For some reason, purposely or by accident, she couldn't
come. He had to proceed--business reasons, or something--and she will
follow on the next boat. She has her own steamer ticket, but he forgot
to give her her railroad ticket. The jewels she may have, or--they have
been stolen on board this ship."

Trent nodded. "Good enough for a theory, but nothing to back it up,
especially. Now, Captain, you can put all these things right back in
the safe. I have a list of them, and though the list may be helpful,
the things themselves are of no use in our work. I think the fact that
Cox was married, or possibly was just about to be married, is a most
important point. To my mind, it has a strong bearing on the fact of
his murder. Now, here's my plan--so far as I've formulated one. Find
out all possible about Oscar Cox, in two ways. One, by asking of
people on board who knew him. Two, by wirelessing to New York, to his
Club and Bank and even to the jeweler who sold him that bill of goods.
He could very likely tell us if Mr. Cox was yet married or was about
to be. He might give us the lady's name. All such details would be
extremely helpful. Further than this I have not yet gone, but I am far
more hopeful of ultimate success than I was when I came into this room
tonight. I thank you, Captain, for the honor of being asked to help,
and I shall use my best efforts and report progress when--or if, any!"

When deeply interested or in earnest, Trent fell into somewhat stilted
language, and as Nash put it, "sounded like one of his own books."

"Tomorrow," Trent went on, "I'd like to have Mr. Cox's trunks brought
up from the hold and run over their contents. There might be something
in them more indicative than all these papers and jewel bills."

"You may have them, Mr. Trent, and then they may as well be left in the
Cox stateroom," the Captain told him. "The body has been removed and
has been embalmed. But I am told it is still a terrible sight, and I
assume there will be no need for its further exhibition on board."

"No, there is nothing to be learned from it," Trent said. "It must
await the action of the Liverpool or Scotland Yard authorities, I
suppose. But we know the means used, and we have seen the resultant
wounds. The clothing and property Mr. Cox had on him when he died
are safely taken care of. So, as I say, there is no need for further
examination of the remains."

The session over, Trent begged of Nash that they have no more confab
that night. He said he believed to sleep over the matter would be the
best thing for both of them and they would meet early next morning to
compare notes and lay their plans.

Nash agreed and went at once to his stateroom. Trent, with one of the
officers went to the Wireless Room to send the message decided upon to
compare notes and lay their plans.

While waiting for the operator's maneuvers, Trent asked permission,
under his newly acquired authority, to see the outgoing messages of the
afternoon.

There were a lot of them, for the passengers were addicted to
communication with the shore, and Trent ran over them rapidly.

None referred to Oscar Cox's death in any way to rouse suspicion.
Several told of it as of news, but Trent gleaned no information.

He smiled to himself at his quest, for surely the last thing a criminal
would do would be to send word to anyone of his deed!

But the detective's interest was caught by a wireless that he thought
might be from Maisie Forman. It was addressed to Jonathan Forman, and
it read:

"No behold what do on or back," and it was signed, "Mary."

"Sent by Miss Forman?" he asked the operator.

"Yep. She sends one nearly every day. To her father."

"Thank you."

Trent kept on until he had looked at every message sent out that
afternoon. None held his attention save one from Sherman Mason to a man
named Frey.

And this interested him only because it also made use of the word
_behold_ in no apparent connection.

This message said:

"Behold nothing off for italy take muff."

Of course the messages were in code, and "behold" must mean some simple
word in general use. He would look up his code book as soon as he
reached his room.

"Muff," too, must mean some important paper or article, perhaps known
only to the men interested in that particular message.

Trent went to his room, and studied his code book far into the night.
But neither the word _behold_ nor the word _muff_ appeared in its lists.

"Private codes," he grunted, sleepily, and with a weary sigh he put
himself to bed.




                             CHAPTER VIII

                           THE DRESSING CASE


In spite of his troubled slumbers and the weight of responsibility he
felt, Trent rose and dressed next morning in a thrill of delight that
he was to see Maisie Forman again.

He frankly admitted to himself that he was rapidly falling in love
with her, but he admonished himself sternly that he must not let that
fact interfere with his work as detective. He invariably smiled at the
notion of being a real detective, but he proposed to take the matter
very seriously and do his level best. He had formulated a few of the
next steps he should take, and he was impatient to get to work.

So after his breakfast he was among the first on deck and seeing Owen
Camper striding along for exercise, Trent joined him.

"Good morning, Mr. Detective," was Camper's greeting, and Trent
realized that little may be kept secret on an ocean liner.

"Detective in name only," Trent returned, with a wry face. "Do help me
out, there's a good fellow. Do tell me some facts about our mysterious
victim. He's almost as unknown as his assailant. To be sure we know
Oscar Cox's name, but that's just about all we do know of him."

Trent was not really so helpless or so in need of help as he affected,
but he hoped to get some scraps of knowledge in this way.

"I don't know anything more about him than the next man," Camper said,
with an air of indifference. "Why do you try to delve into it, when
there's no hope of solving the mystery?"

"Don't say 'no hope.' In fact, that's all there is--hope. I've
practically nothing else to buoy up my spirits."

"Do you know what I think?" Camper waxed loquacious all at once. "I
believe it was that queer man of his who did for him. That thing he
called Hudder."

"Any reason to think so?"

"Not perhaps what can be called a reason--but, elimination, you know.
There's no one else to suspect. Who else on board could have had any
motive?"

"Dozens of people, for all we know," Trent asserted. "Whoever did
it had a deep, a desperate motive. That crime was premeditated and
carefully executed. It was the work of a fiendish mind, but a clever
one. Agree?"

"Yes. But that doesn't let Hudder out. He may have a far more clever
mind than appears in his blank face, and he may be a fiend at heart."

"May be, yes. But for that matter you may be, or I may be, or anyone on
board may be. We have to find more than 'may be's' before we can really
suspect anybody."

"And how are you going about it?"

"I'm going to ask questions. And then more questions. I must find out
first, who and what Cox really is--or was. Next, who on board were more
acquainted with him than appeared on the surface. There's the real
secret. Somebody knew Cox well enough to want to kill him, and that
somebody is even now walking the deck and laughing at our puny efforts
to find him out."

"And you think you can find out?" Camper's tone was incredulous and a
little sarcastic.

"I hope to. As I told you, hope is all I have at the moment. But I
expect to get more. More information, more evidence, more--."

"More clues?"

"This is a case that doesn't abound in clues nor evidence, of a
spectacular kind. You see, the deck and wall and all the locality of
Cox's chair was washed away and scrubbed and swabbed within an hour of
the crime. So there's no chance for that sort of clue. And so far, his
stateroom has given up no evidence of importance. You're sure you know
nothing of him, Camper, more than you told?"

"I haven't told anything, and I don't know anything. I've known Cox
for years, but only as a mere acquaintance. I'm not in his class
financially, and I never cared to be in his class socially."

"Why, what sort did he travel with?"

"Big money spenders, gay dogs, high livers, hard drinkers, all that
such things imply."

Owen Camper's tone was bitter, more so than the subject seemed to call
for, and Trent wondered if perchance, these things implied were not a
source of resentment to the man not able to afford them. He had heard
that the Campers were climbers, and he surmised they might have been
snubbed by Cox for presuming on their slight acquaintance.

"Cox seemed a good-natured, simple-hearted man," he said, not with
entire sincerity.

"Yes, if a snake in the grass is good-natured and simple-hearted!" and
this time Camper's animosity was plainly evident.

"Bad as that!" commented Trent, casually. "Then I'm more than ever sure
he had a real enemy on board, and I propose to smoke him out."

Camper turned pale and then suddenly red.

"No," he said earnestly, as if regretting his disclosures, "no, you
look after that Hudder. He's the man you want--he's the man who killed
Cox. Why, who else could get that bronze hand from Cox's stateroom? The
servant could, of course, but a fellow passenger couldn't walk into
another man's room, pick up that murderous thing, and come out here
and fire it at his head!"

"Sometimes Cox had that bronze thing with him."

"He didn't yesterday morning. For somebody asked to see it, and he
said it was in his stateroom. Said he'd have Hudder bring it out after
lunch. Well Hudder did--and used it as he saw fit."

"Maybe," Trent said, "maybe." And then as he saw a certain person
making her way toward her deck chair, Trent rushed off with rather
scant ceremony.

"Good morning, Miss Forman," he said, as he sat down beside her, "I
missed you frightfully yesterday. How are you?"

"I'm all right now, but that awful affair was too much for my nerves. I
couldn't sleep last night. Your dear little posy was a help--."

The smile that accompanied these words went straight to Trent's heart.

Such a pathetic, sweet little smile and yet with no hint of coquetry or
flattery.

"I'm so alone, you see," she went on, looking straight ahead, and
almost as if thinking aloud, "I've no one to speak to when I'm
frightened."

"And you were frightened? It's all awful, to be sure, but there's no
cause for fear, Miss Forman."

"No, I suppose not. I mean to overcome it--it's just a horror of--of
being alone."

Trent damped down his leaping impulses, and forced himself to say,
calmly:

"You need never be alone at such times as I can be with you," putting
just the right shade of polite kindness in his tone.

His reward was another little smile, and a nod that accepted his
suggestion in the spirit it was made.

"Tell me," she went on, "have they discovered the--who did the terrible
thing?"

"It isn't they," he said, a bit ruefully, "it's I." And he told her how
the Captain had deputed Nash and himself to make such investigation as
they could in the hope of solving the mystery.

"And I want to do it," he concluded. "I want very much to find out who
was the criminal, but it is not an easy task. And I am not a practical
detective at all. I've already learned it's one thing to make up a
crime story, knowing the solution from the beginning, and quite another
to be pitched headlong onto a most mysterious case, without a clue or a
bit of evidence to guide you!"

"There are no clues?" Maisie spoke in a hushed voice, almost as if
afraid of the answer.

"Positively none. Camper, over there, suspects the man Hudder--or says
he does. But I can't see that chap killing his master out on deck. If
he had murderous intent, why not carry it out in the stateroom?"

"Then Hudder would surely have been suspected," she said, quickly.

"So you're a detective, too!" he bantered. "Yes, you are right. But
Hudder was down in the kitchen places, getting Cox's lunch ready."

"Who was around where Mr. Cox sat?"

"Nobody and everybody. I mean, nobody that we can definitely name, but
at the same time, everybody on board might have been there. With the
excitement of the Fourth of July celebration going on, and the noise
of the rattles and whistles, the murderer had opportunity to do his
dreadful work unnoticed. Even if there was an outcry from the victim,
or any sound of impact, it would have been lost in the greater noise of
the crowd."

"But weren't people just--inside the doors--."

"As I see it, they were mostly on the stairs. On the upper landings
they were looking down at the crowd below, and the whole mass was
slowly moving down the stairs and toward the dining rooms. Where were
you?"

"I? Why--why, I suppose I was here--or, no, I must have been in my
place at the table. What time did it happen?"

"We place it between one-ten and one-forty."

"How do you know so exactly?"

"It doesn't seem to me that is exact. Half an hour is a long time to
investigate. But we know because Mr. Camper says he left the deck
at ten after one, and the Deck Steward took Cox's tray up to him at
one-forty. He knows the time, because he was late, on account of the
extra menu being prepared in the kitchen, and he was afraid Mr. Cox
would be annoyed. He says he reached the deck at one-forty, and it was
he who discovered the tragedy. That places it surely between one-ten
and one-forty, but I can find no one who admits being on deck at all
between those times."

"I left the deck about--oh, I don't know what time. I didn't look. I
saw the crowds on the stairs, and I went around outside, and stopped at
my stateroom for a book, and then I went down in the elevator. I didn't
want to get into that crowd."

"No." Trent looked thoughtful. "I left you here, remember? About
quarter before one."

"Yes, I know you did. And I stayed a short time longer, and then went
in."

"Did you see Mr. Cox as you passed?"

"No. I went around the stern. He's up toward the bow, you know."

"Yes. Did you see anybody?"

"No one I knew. But I know so few on board."

"Yes, of course. Now, look here, Miss Forman. When you went to your
room and got your book, did you go immediately to the elevator?"

"Yes, directly."

"Then, you had to pass Cox's stateroom. Did you see anything--notice
anything? Was the door open?"

"Why--I don't know. I don't know which Mr. Cox's room is."

"It's at the end of the next corridor to your own."

"Oh, is it? No, I didn't glance that way at all, for the people were
looking over the stair rail, and I paused and looked down for a moment,
and then went on."

"See anyone you knew, then?"

"No, no one. As I looked over I saw the Campers on the landing below.
Then they moved along, and I went to the elevator. I reached the dining
room just about the time they did."

"Did you speak to them?"

"No, their table is on the other side of the room. I don't think they
saw me."

"Oh, well, these things get us nowhere. I shouldn't be surprised if we
have to confess utter failure, after all. You see, it's hopeless to try
to find an enemy of Oscar Cox in such a mass of people, without the
least hint as to the man we're to look for."

"It certainly seems impossible. Why don't you drop the whole thing?
You can't be so deeply interested in bringing the criminal to justice,
since Mr. Cox wasn't a special friend of yours."

"No, he wasn't. But common humanity demands the effort. And, too, the
Captain put it up to us--Nash and myself--to do what we could. So, of
course, my duty is clear."

"And your pride is at stake," Maisie smiled.

"Well, yes, but that's riding to a fall. My pride is a limp affair
today compared to what it was before this thing happened. My detective
instinct, I find, only works when I have invented the problem and its
solution both myself."

At that moment a steward approached, bringing a wireless message for
Maisie. She took it quietly enough, but Trent noted that her fingers
shook a little.

"Allow me," he said, and whipping out his penknife, slit the envelope
for her, gave it back, and then immersed himself in a book, while she
read it.

Returning the paper to its envelope, the girl sat motionless for a time.

Stealing a glance at her face, Trent saw that she was gazing out to sea
with an expression that showed her thoughts were far away.

He turned his eyes back to his book, though he was not reading.

At last she said, speaking softly and dully, almost as one in a dream:

"I have to turn around and go back home, as soon as we land."

"What!" cried Trent, roused to activity. "I won't have it!"

Maisie stared at him, with a funny little smile.

"What have you to say about it?" she inquired, laughing now, as if the
idea were deliciously absurd.

"Oh, I've a lot to say about it. I--I don't want you to do that. I
planned to see a lot of you in London--after you--after you had joined
your friends."

"I know--but now I'm not going to London. My father says for me to come
straight back home on the _Pinnacle_, or any boat that may sail sooner."

"Is your father ill?"

"Oh, no. But--but dad is--is by way of being dictatorial--at times."

"I should say so. Look here, you do a little dictating yourself. Tell
him you won't go home. A nice thing to do! When you've just got over!"

"But suppose I want to go home?"

"Suppose you don't! Anyway, I don't want you to. And these friends of
yours, who are to meet you at Liverpool--what about them?"

"They--they don't matter. Oh, I _don't_ want to go back--especially
now--."

Trent's heart jumped. Did she--_could_ she mean especially now that
they were becoming such good friends?

"Don't go, then. At any rate, don't decide today. Let your Dad wait
until tomorrow, and then see how you feel about it."

Trent had in his mind certain wild plans for a moonlight stroll on an
upper deck, and a low, whispered conversation, that might--just _might_
make a difference in Maisie Forman's plans for life!

And then Nash and Mallory came along, and Nash gave his colleague a
reproving glance as he saw him wasting time dallying with a girl.

"Come on, Trent," he said, a little shortly, "we've the trunks up from
the hold, and we're going to examine them."

He spoke in an aside, but Maisie heard it. An involuntary shudder could
be noticed even beneath her rug, and her face paled again, as Trent had
noticed it before.

"I can't bear to hear anything about it," she said, in response to
Nash's frankly curious glance. "Please go on, Mr. Trent. I'll read to
divert my mind."

"Don't blurt out things like that before a lady, Nash," Trent said
irritably, as they went along the deck.

Nash turned round and faced him, raised his eyebrows, gave a nod of
apologetic assent, and turned back again. No word was said, but Trent
saw that Nash thoroughly understood and he was glad he did.

They went to Cox's stateroom, where Hudder awaited them. He had the
keys, which had been found in the dead man's pocket, and he solemnly
proceeded to open one piece of luggage after another.

Mallory was present and the four men made quick work of it. For the
most part there were only clothes and toilet appurtenances, and again
the young men expressed surprise and admiration at the richness and
beauty of the things.

"Surely a wedding trip," Nash declared. "Either he is just married or
just about to be. You know nothing of Mr. Cox's wedding, Hudder?"

"No, sir," said the stolid one, with such a blank face that Trent had
need of much self-control not to pitch him overboard at once.

"Then what do you make of this?" and the active Mallory pulled a fine
leather suitcase from a larger and less beautiful one that just held it.

The case he took out was beyond all doubt a lady's case, and as Hall
snatched the keys from Hudder, he at once picked the right one to fit
it.

Thrown open, the case proved to be fitted up with the most beautiful
and complete set of brushes, bottles and all the appointments of a most
elaborate toilet set. The mountings were of gold and the monogram on
each was E. M. C.

"For the lady!" Mallory declared, and Nash and Trent nodded.

Hudder betrayed no surprise and no curiosity.

Questioned, he denied any knowledge of the lady they surmised existed,
he knew nothing of his master's plans, he had no idea what names
the initials stood for, and with unvarying respect and exasperating
indifference, he reiterated his ignorance.

"Well, we've got to find that woman!" Nash declared, and Trent,
interested anew, agreed.

"The man must have been already married," Trent said, thinking deeply.
"For if not, that will would be of no use. If it were made before the
wedding ceremony, it would be annulled by the marriage, so why do that?
But it is dated June thirtieth, the day before we sailed from New York.
So he must have been married at that date. Now, where is the lady?"

"Waiting for him on the other side." Nash returned. "They were married,
no matter when or where. She went abroad--or maybe lives over there.
Then he wound up his business affairs, and started off to join her on
a--perhaps belated--honeymoon. He brought this beautiful toilet case,
also, as I see it, he brought that consignment of jewelry, and somebody
knew of it all, and bashed his head in and robbed him in the excitement
of the Fourth. Too easy!"

"As to reconstruction, yes--if that's right," Trent said. "But who did
it?"

"Foolish question number seventy-nine," Nash answered. "But I don't
mind confiding that if I knew I'd tell you, my friend."

"Well, we have E. M. C. to work on. The C is, of course, for Cox. And
probably M stands for the lady's maiden name, while E is for her first
name. Edith, Elizabeth, Esther--."

"Ethel, Enid, Emily--." Mallory piped, in mockery. "Why guess? Why
not wireless back to New York, to the Bureau of Vital Statistics, or
whatever the place is, and inquire the name of the lady Oscar Cox
recently married?"

"Hal Mall!" Nash cried, staring at him. "Sometimes you show--."

"Yes, I know--almost human intelligence! Well, you fellows may be
astute sleuths and all that, but you haven't much ready chicken feed in
the way of common sense."

"Can we do that?" Trent asked of Nash.

"Sure, we can do it. Whether we get a reply before we land, I dunno. I
fancy the Bureaus and such places are a bit slow in their returns. But,
no harm trying."

"We ought to get some answers to last night's messages pretty soon,"
said Trent, as they finished going through the trunks and found
nothing more of interest. The clothes were left for Hudder to refold
and repack, and then Trent conceived the brilliant idea of looking in
the ship's letter box for possible missives put there by Cox while on
board.

"Everybody writes letters and notes the first few days out," Trent
said, "thanks for gifts and all that, if not regular business letters.
Let's look."

Permission gained, they opened the mail box, and Cox's handwriting
being easily distinguishable, they soon found several letters obviously
written by him.

"It seems sort of awful," said Nash, hesitating as he was about to
break the seal of the first one, "this opening a man's mail when he
can't say a word in protest!"

"Why, we're doing it in his interest," Trent cried. "All we do is for
the purpose of bringing justice against the wretch who killed his
fellow man. I don't see the necessity of any apology for that!"

"I should say not!" exclaimed Mallory.

The letters, however, seemed not of great importance. Three were to
women and contained thanks for flowers and books sent to the steamer.
They were couched in courteous but conventional terms, and were most
certainly not to close friends.

Two were to men at summer resorts and merely stated that the writer's
foreign address would be the Hotel Britz, London, until further advices.

The last, a fat letter, was of more enlightenment.

It was quite evidently to Cox's lawyer, one Mark Sheaffer, and told him
of a few business details to be attended to. Also it enclosed two other
letters which Mr. Sheaffer was instructed to address and post in New
York.

These were penciled on the outside with a light E. F. and J. F.
presumably to be erased when the lawyer should address them properly.

They were, of course, opened.

The one to E. F. said simply, "Do not try to find me. It is useless."

The other, to J. F. said, almost equally briefly, "Everything all
right. Muff all right. Don't worry. Will write from London." This
laconic screed was signed "Osee," which, they concluded was a nickname
for O. C.

"About as wise as when we started," Nash said, disappointedly.

But Trent was thoughtful. Muff, he remembered was a code word he had
seen before. He must find out what it meant. But he said nothing about
it, for he had not told the others of the copies of wireless messages
he had read up in the operator's office.

He couldn't have said, exactly, why he was withholding this
information, but he was impelled to do so, for the present, at least.

They went down to report to the Captain, and found his room overflowing
with a crowd of youngsters who had come to pester him, as he laughingly
expressed it.

Though not overly fond of the flapper gang, Captain Van Winkle was
kind hearted and indulgent toward them.

"Why, yes," he was saying, as the others came to the door. "Yes, I see
no reason why you shouldn't have your Treasure Hunt. Today?"

"No, tomorrow," said Sally, the ringleader. "We have the Treasures,
Mrs. Craig gave us a gold vanity case, and Mr. Camper gave us a
stickpin. So we'll fix it all up for tomorrow afternoon."

"All right, all right," said the Captain, shooing the young folks out
as he saw the men arrive. "Scoot, now, I'm busy!"

The rollicking horde ran off, and behind closed doors, Captain Van
Winkle listened with interest to the report given him.

"Are we much farther along?" he asked dubiously, for it all meant
little to him.

"Indeed, yes," Nash declared. "We have lots of addresses of people Cox
knew and we have a certainty that there is a woman in the case somehow
or somewhere. And that, to my mind, is a whole lot!"

"Yes?"




                              CHAPTER IX

                           THE TREASURE HUNT


"Have you heard the latest reports?" Amy Camper spoke eagerly, and
appropriated a vacant chair near Maisie as the latter sat idly looking
out to sea.

The girl looked up, a little surprised, for she had not encouraged the
Campers in their efforts at sociability.

"Oh, I know you're not crazy about me," said the volatile little woman,
"but really, I'm not so bad when you know me. You know you're very
exclusive, Miss Forman."

The light laugh that accompanied the words was intended to take off the
edge of their rudeness, but to Maisie's mind it only accentuated it.

"Then why intrude on my exclusion?" she returned, but it was said in a
good-natured tone.

"Oh, come now, don't take that attitude. Let's be chummy, do. You chum
with those youngsters, why not with me? I assure you I'm worth while."

Maisie laughed. The woman was so irrepressible.

"But I don't doubt that," she said. "Only I'm not of a gregarious sort,
and the trip is so short--."

"Yes, I know all that. Now, let's talk about the murder. Do you know
they say there's a woman in the case?"

"Do you mean a woman killed Mr. Cox?" Maisie's eyes widened in horror.

"Oh, I don't say that--but it seems there's a woman mixed up in it
somehow."

"How?"

"Nobody knows, exactly, but in his luggage they found all sorts of
presents for her--gold toilet sets and jewels fit for a queen--."

"Ridiculous, Mrs. Camper. Are you sure of this, or is it unfounded
rumor?"

"That I can't say. Only the stories are afloat--one hears them
everywhere. Aren't you interested in the matter at all?"

Amy Camper looked at her curiously.

"Yes, but not in silly stories, without foundation. I should be glad to
know that they have discovered who killed poor Mr. Cox, and that the
murderer would be brought to justice. But I have no interest in the
details. I never read detective stories, you see."

"Yet you are close friends with the great author who writes them," and
Mrs. Camper smiled slyly.

"Yes," Maisie returned, with dignity, "Mr. Trent is very courteous and
friendly. He is an interesting man."

"Who is?" said Owen Camper, joining them. "Trent? Oh, yes, he's very
clever. And I believe he's on this job of tracking down Cox's murderer.
Personally, I doubt if he can do it. On a big ship like this, it's
mighty hard to know much about people. I say, Miss Forman, don't you
think it might be something to do with 'The Black Hand,' the society,
you know?"

"Why, I never thought of that! You mean the clan or gang, or whatever
they call it?"

"Yes, the Blackhanders. It might be their work."

"But I understand that bronze hand was Mr. Cox's property. It would be
a coincidence if it had been used by the society! Or do you mean Mr.
Cox was a Blackhander?"

"No, not that, of course. But I don't get it at all."

"You were among the last to see Mr. Cox alive, weren't you?"

Maisie put the question quietly, but it seemed to startle Camper.

"Why--what makes you think that?" he said.

"I don't know--but your chair was near his, and you left the deck--when
did you leave the deck?"

"I don't know--nobody ever knows the time of such movements. When did
you?"

"I don't know, either. But I was at the table when you came into the
dining room."

"Were you?" and Camper looked at her, curiously. "Look here, Miss
Forman, do you know what I think? I think we ought to hang together--."

"Hang together?"

"Yes, all our crowd--I mean all on this side of the deck, Cox's side,
you know. We must stand by one another, if we are questioned."

"Will you please explain yourself definitely, Mr. Camper?"

"Don't scare the life out of her, Owen," said his wife. "Miss Forman is
not interested in the murder, personally."

"But, this is what I mean," the man insisted. "Anyone on this side of
the deck might be suspected of killing Cox. When we are questioned--as
we all will be--I think we ought to declare that we were all off the
deck before the crime occurred. For, we were, you know, and inquiries
would lead nowhere."

"All off the deck? How can you possibly know that?"

"Because we were all anxious to get down to the dining room and see the
fun. Cox wasn't killed until one-forty, and by that time we were all at
our tables."

"I think they assume the crime was committed between one-ten and
one-forty," Maisie corrected him. "Do you know that they have
discovered the time more definitely?"

"No, I don't know that they have. I went off at one-twenty and he was
alive enough then."

"They say you declared you left the deck at one-ten," Maisie said, and
her straightforward glance was a little disconcerting.

"But, as I told you, we can't state those things with any exactitude.
Nobody knows, to the moment, when he did anything."

"Then you ought to have told the detectives that," and Maisie's
glance was now distinctly reproving. "They must be given all the help
possible."

"Are you accusing my husband of this thing?" Amy Camper's tone was
shrill and angry.

"Good gracious, no!" and Maisie smiled at her. "But I'm sure you agree
that we must all tell all we know, but we must be most careful as to
its accuracy."

"You're right, Miss Forman," Amy smiled at her. "Now, look here, let
us take you under our wing. You are so alone on board. We won't bother
you to death but--you do need an older woman at times. Come and sit at
our table in the dining room,--it breaks my heart to see you eating all
alone."

"Thank you," Maisie again withdrew into her shell of cold disdain. "I
prefer a table to myself. I like to read while at meals, rather than
talk."

"Oh, very well. But do be friends, do be chummy. I can do a lot for
you. I know nearly everybody on board."

"So do I!" and the beaming face of Lily Gibbs smiled as she came by and
heard Amy's last words. "Nearly everybody. I say, Miss Forman come out
of your shell and be a mixer."

"See if you can persuade her, Lily," Amy Camper said, as she and her
husband drifted away, and Miss Gibbs remained.

"You can't, Miss Lily," Maisie said, but not unkindly. "If you're
my friend, I wish you'd try to protect me from 'mixing,' instead of
thrusting it on me. Can't you understand, even if the Campers can't,
that I don't want to mix. Surely, I make it plain enough."

"Surely you do," Miss Gibbs returned, placidly. "Why is it, my dear?
You know you're getting yourself talked about."

"Talked about! What do you mean?"

"Why, everybody's saying that since you're so averse to being sociable
there must be some reason--."

"Good Heavens!" cried Maisie, "one would think we were in a small
summer boarding-house! Why, on a big liner, one is supposed to be as
independent as in a large city hotel!"

"Yes, but they think you're mysterious. Travelling alone, you see, and
no friends on board--but men--."

"Hush!" and Maisie's eyes blazed, "I won't stand it! How dare you talk
to me like that?"

"I'm just telling you what they say," Miss Gibbs' placidity was
undisturbed. "It isn't nice for a young girl like you to get herself
talked about."

"I'd rather be talked about than to be talked to--like this! I don't
refuse your friendship, Miss Gibbs, but I resent your intrusion on my
affairs and I resent your speech. If you and the Campers continue, I
shall have no recourse but to remain in my cabin all the time."

"And what would poor Mr. Trent do then?" Lily laughed slyly.

"He would, I think, be sorry, for we are friends," Maisie said, simply.
"But I would rather forgo his pleasant chat, than be subjected to the
sort of talk I've had this morning."

"Well," Miss Gibbs took her departure, "I've done my part. I've warned
you that you're being talked about, and called snifty and snobbish and
all that. If it doesn't bother you any, why, all right."

"It certainly doesn't!" said Maisie, with a voice full of angry scorn.

Then the youngsters came along. Sally in the lead, intent on her
proposed frolic.

"Oh, Miss Forman," she cried, "will you join the Treasure Hunt? You pay
ten dollars, you know, and it goes to the sick babies' fund. Then we
search the boat for the hidden treasure--and it's such fun! And we've
Mr. Mason to help us--in Mr. Cox's place."

She was clinging to the arm of Sherman Mason, who looked a little
embarrassed as he smiled down at Maisie.

"You see, Miss Forman," he explained, "the Captain said that the young
people ought not to be deprived of their frolics because of the tragedy
on board. In fact, he said, and I agree with him, that was all the more
reason they should have diversion. It's a terrible shadow to be cast
over their sea trip, and I feel we ought to do what we can to blot it
from their memory. So I'm--well, I'm just under Miss Sally's orders.
May we hope you'll join in the game? Surely you need diversion as much
as the other young people."

Maisie smiled at being classed with the flappers, but as she was about
to decline the invitation, she remembered what she had been told about
her unpopularity and it occurred to her here was a good chance to
refute the aspersions, with no help from the Campers-Gibbs faction.

"Why, yes, I think so," she said with her charming smile. "But you must
instruct me. It so happens that I've never attended a Treasure Hunt--on
board a liner."

"It's this way," Mason said, courteously, "we hunt in couples. If you
will be my partner for the event, I will show you the routine and all
that."

Again she hesitated. She knew Mr. Mason only slightly, yet save for
Trent, there was no one on board she especially wanted for a partner.
And after that cat's remarks--as she mentally styled Lily Gibbs--she
felt it would be wiser not to hunt with Trent, even if he should ask
her.

So she said, gracefully, "Thank you, Mr. Mason. I shall be pleased
to have you for my partner in the Hunt--and I hope we shall be the
winners--the victors--what do you call them?"

"The finders," chirped Sally. "Good for you, Miss Forman, I was afraid
you'd be too upstage to join in. Now, may we hunt in your cabin?
Captain won't allow us anywhere without the passengers' permission."

"No, my child, certainly not. I told you that when you asked me before."

"Yes, but that was before you said you'd hunt with us."

"Not in my cabin," said Maisie, decidedly. "I strenuously object to
such an infringement on my privacy. You have plenty of other places?"

"Oh, yes, it will be all right. We'll let you know more when our plans
are farther along. Oh, there's Mrs. Hemmingway. We must see her about
this. Come on--" and the wild horde flew along the deck, while Mason
sat down a moment by Maisie.

"Gay little piece, Sally," he commented. "Real flapper type, but with a
good clear brain inside her little bobbed noddle."

"Yes, I can't help liking her. But I'm almost sorry I agreed to this
rollicking game. I'm not upstage, as she puts it, but I'm afraid it's a
bit undignified--."

"Oh, come now, Miss Forman, you've promised me, and I shan't let you
off. It will do you good to mingle with, the scatterbrained bunch, and
besides, a lot of older, even elderly people are joining in. Myself,
for instance."

Maisie looked up to meet his frankly smiling eyes.

"Oh, well," she said, mischievously, "if you old gentlemen are in it,
it is assured of dignity at least."

"Didn't catch any compliment, did I?" he said, gayly. "You'll take back
your epithet when you see me scamper for the Treasure."

"Do we have to scamper?"

"Of course. Unless you're just going to be a make-believe seeker, and
hang behind."

"Perhaps that's just what I shall do. Will that handicap your efforts?"

"Not of necessity. Though as a proper cavalier I shall wait on my lady."

"Well, we'll see. Here's Sally back again."

"Oh," cried the irrepressible one, "we're going to have the Hunt today,
this afternoon at four o'clock. I'm afraid if we wait till tomorrow
somebody else will go and get murdered, or something. Puppy Abercrombie
and I are going to fix up everything in a jiffy. It's a lot more fun to
do things in a hurry. Puppy is a good worker." She looked admiringly at
the youth who returned an adoring glance. His more dignified Christian
name of Dane had been extended to Great Dane, and then shortened to
Puppy, as easier to handle.

He was tied to Sally's apron string with the rest of the boys, but
being as she said, a good worker, his star was just now in the
ascendant.

"Miss Gibbs and Mr. Camper are to hide the Treasure," Sally further
informed, "and some grown-up Smarty cats are going to invent the clues.
I don't do any of those things, for if I did I couldn't hunt, you see.
So I look after some other details. Come along, Mr. Mason, you're
wanted."

Apparently the energetic girl had found a worthy successor to Oscar
Cox, for Mason rose, with an acquiescent smile and followed her.

"What's all this?" Max Trent said, wonderingly, as he turned up a few
moments later, and took his own chair. "They say you're going to join
in this infernal Hunt game, as Sherman Mason's partner."

"Yes," Maisie smiled her most enchanting smile at him. "You're not
pleased?"

"Rather not! Why couldn't you hunt with me?"

"Nobody asked me, sir, she said."

"But you knew I would! And I never dreamed you'd go in for the fool
thing!"

He was distinctly disgruntled, and Maisie's feminine whim rejoiced at
the sight.

"Oh, well," she sighed, "one must have a little diversion now and then."

"Diversion's all right, but why couldn't you take it with me?"

"I was so afraid I wouldn't be asked, I said 'yes' to the first
invitation," she returned, demurely.

"What has come over you? Are you going in for gayety?"

"Why not?"

"Instead of--tragedy?"

Trent felt a bit of a brute to refer thus to the scene of the deck
rail, but he was beginning to be impressed by the contradictoriness and
mystery of this girl who interested him so deeply and he was determined
to get at the root of the matter.

"Yes," she said, steadily, and very gravely, as she looked straight at
him, "instead of tragedy."

"I'm glad," he said, heartily, entirely reassured by her sweet,
appealing eyes, "and will you--will you promise not to return to
the--er--tragedy act?"

"I promise," she said, but her voice was somber now, and her gaze left
him and wandered out to sea. It stayed there so long, that he ventured
to interrupt her reverie.

"Well, since you've thrown me over in the matter of the Treasure Hunt,
will you dance with me this evening, in the lounge?"

Her face turned back to his, white and startled looking.

"Oh, no," she spoke abruptly, "oh, no--I couldn't--couldn't dance--."

"Very well, then, will you stroll the deck with me. It's moonlight--and
perhaps the moonlight may--may illumine our hearts."

"Sounds nice!" she said, and now the lurking mischief reappeared in her
smile. "I'll see about it, and--tell you at dinner time."

With that he was forced to be content, and they lapsed into a desultory
conversation that was nearly if not quite in their usual vein.

At four o'clock that afternoon the Treasure Hunters gathered in
the lounge for instructions. There was a large party for many were
interested in the cause, and others came for the fun.

Maisie looked very sweet in a sports costume of white knitted silk with
a fluttering chiffon scarf of jade green and a little hat to match.

The Instructor gave them as a first clue the number forty-nine, nothing
more.

Faces were blank for a moment, and then someone cried, "Stateroom 49!"

"Of course," they chorused and all rushed to that stateroom.

But to their knock the door was opened by a smiling stewardess who
said, "No, not _Room_ 49."

The emphasis was unmistakable, and a bright mind offered, "Table 49!"

Down to the dining room they sped, and pounced on the table bearing the
charmed number.

Here they found a card under a plate which bore the legend, "Not
_Table_ 49."

Well, what next? Aha, Deck Chair 49!

To the deck and found the chair occupied by a pleasant old lady, who
beamed at them through her spectacles, and said, "Not _Chair_ 49!"

Then they were puzzled, and much thinking was done.

"Not a real number," Mason volunteered. "Perhaps a jest--say, a
forty-niner."

"Is there one on board?" asked many, and the information was
forthcoming that there was, an old chap in the second cabin, who was a
real forty-niner.

Down they trooped, and the guess was right.

Old Mr. Gorton was so glad to see the merry crowd he was loath to do
his part and give up the paper which would send them away.

But he was persuaded, and he surrendered a card bearing only the words,
Humpty Dumpty.

Here was a poser.

"Eggs," somebody suggested, "the kitchen!"

Like a flash, many rushed for the kitchen, but Maisie said to Mason,
who was watching her animated face with admiration in his eyes, "I
don't believe it means eggs and I'm not going down to the commissariat
department. You go, if you choose."

"Not if you don't. Have you any idea what it means?"

"No. Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. There's no wall on the ship, is
there?"

"Not exactly. There may be, but they wouldn't give such an obscure
clue."

"No, I suppose not. Well, how about Humpty Dumpty in a book--in the
Library?"

"Good! Mother Goose, of course. Didn't suppose they had that in the
ship's collection--it may belong to some child on board."

Several overhearing, inclined to the Library, and thither they went.

But no Mother Goose was in the catalogue, though the Library Steward
aided them in their search all he could.

Nor did anyone know of a child owner of the book.

"Oh, wait!" Maisie cried, "I have it! Alice In Wonderland!"

The beam on the face of the Library Steward showed that her guess was
right and that he had known all the time. He handed her the book when
she asked for it, and as she quickly turned to the part about Humpty
Dumpty, between the leaves lay a sealed envelope addressed to the
Treasure Hunters.

Quickly opened, it read:

    Seek the quarter deck,
      There you'll surely find
    Treasure in good measure
      Of a pleasant kind.

The quarter deck. Many didn't know just exactly where to find that
locality and stewards and officers were besieged with questions.

All were answered quickly and courteously and the seekers scrambled
here and there, hunting assiduously, but in vain.

Nearly half an hour was spent in fruitless hunt, when a clever brain
suggested:

"Not the real quarter deck at all! A--oh, a deck of cards!"

Blank faces greeted this idea, until somebody else said, "That's right!
The smoking room, or the lounge--."

Then everybody was off, searching for all the playing cards on board.

And at last, two of the Younger Set, a pretty flapper and her attendant
swain, discovered in the drawer of a card table a part of a pack of
cards--thirteen, to be exact--representing a quarter of a deck! And on
the cards were the two parcels that were their rich reward. A lovely
vanity case for the girl and a gold stickpin for the boy were grasped
with shouts of glee and triumph.

But Sally Barnes was not among the group of merry-makers.

No, she was down in the Captain's office, shut in alone with him, and
her earnest face and grave tones were quite at variance with her usual
demeanor.

"Yes, Captain Van Winkle," she said, and her eyes held unshed tears,
"I did just what you told me. I got the Stewardess out of the way, and
then I slipped into Miss Forman's room, when all the others were on the
other side of the boat. And--in the back part of the wardrobe, behind a
hatbox, I found these."

As gravely as the girl, the Captain looked at what she gave him.

They were five jeweler's cases, empty of contents.

Yet it was only too easily to be seen, that one had been made for a
necklace, three for bracelets, and the other a square case that might
have contained a shoulder buckle.

The name on the satin lining of each was the name of the Fifth Avenue
jeweler whose receipted bills had been found among the effects of the
late Oscar Cox.

"You found these empty, Miss Barnes?"

"Yes, Captain. Oh, what does it mean?" and the unshed tears poured down
in a flood.




                               CHAPTER X

                               PLANTED?


Captain Van Winkle was at his alert best.

Detective work was not his _metier_, but looking into matters that
affected the well-being of his ship was.

"Don't cry, Miss Sally," he said, kindly. "Whatever it means you have
done only right in finding these things for me. How did you know--or
rather what made you suspect the jewels we are looking for might by any
chance be in Miss Forman's possession?"

"Well, you see," Sally stammered a little, "she wears a stunning pearl
necklace with a square diamond for a clasp, that never came from the
five-and-ten!"

"And how did you know that the jewelry in question included a necklace
of that description?"

This time the girl hesitated longer, but said, at last, "Well, Captain,
I wormed it out of Hal Mallory. He's a nice chap, but about as
water-tight as a sieve. And I wanted to know about Maisie Forman. She's
a mystery to us on board. Why is she travelling alone, Captain Van
Winkle?"

"Bless my soul, I don't know! Do you suppose I ask such questions of my
passengers?"

"No--but do you--don't you think she is an--you know--an adventuress?"

Captain Van Winkle threw back his fine head and laughed.

"No," he said, "no, I don't. And you're a minx to mention such a word
in connection with that young lady. Don't do it again."

Sally was not afraid of the Captain, for she was a minx and was afraid
of nobody, but she knew when she was scolded and took it docilely.

"But, Captain," she said, "what about these jewel cases?"

"Ay, that." He fell into a brief reverie.

Then suddenly he looked up, touched a bell and sent for Trent.

Max Trent, none too well pleased to be dragged away from Miss Forman's
society, came at once, and the captain laid the matter before him.

"You are investigating the murder of Mr. Cox," he said, looking at
Trent keenly, "and, as you know, we found among Mr. Cox's papers,
certain jewelry bills. Do you think these empty jewel cases represent
the items specified on those bills?"

Trent examined the cases with interest.

"I think there can be no doubt of it," he said. "See, this is obviously
a case for a necklace. These three just alike would answer to the three
bracelets and this other one would just fit a shoulder buckle. It
seems a shoulder buckle of gems is a popular ornament just now. And, as
you see, these cases bear the name of the firm who sent the bills."

"Yes," said the Captain, "tell Mr. Trent where you found these, will
you, Miss Barnes?"

Sally looked up regretfully. There was no sauciness on her pert little
face now. It was with a sad inflection that she said:

"I found them, Mr. Trent, in the wardrobe in Miss Forman's stateroom.
They were hidden behind a hatbox."

Trent stared at her a moment. He was not a man given to disclosure
of his feelings. But his brain worked like lightning. He thought of
several things to say, of several attitudes to take, and then decided
on the simplest.

"Indeed," he said. "And how did you happen to be looking in there?"

"The Captain asked me to," Sally returned, still with that odd
quietness that made her seem older and prettier.

"In the interests of the case," Captain Van Winkle supplemented.

"Well," Trent said next, "it is a find. It certainly is a find.
Of course they were planted. That's what detectives call it, when
incriminating evidence is purposely placed where it may be found."

"Yes," and Captain Van Winkle nodded. "Now we must find out who did
the planting. By the way, Miss Barnes tells me that the pearl necklace
Miss Forman wears is like the one described in the jeweler's bill."

"Rot!" Trent was getting nervous. "As if a pearl necklace could be
described."

"But it mentioned a square diamond clasp, and they are not common."

"Are you implying that Miss Forman's necklace could by any possibility
be the necklace of the Cox bill?"

Trent's tone was icy, and his eyes glittered.

Captain Van Winkle sighed. He knew men, and he saw at once that if
there was any question of Maisie Forman's implication in the case, he
could expect no more help from Max Trent.

And he had depended on Trent. He knew he was not a detective, but he
was experienced in the ways and means of detectives, vicariously, and
he had hoped that Trent would at least find a suspect before they
landed at Liverpool.

"I am not implying anything, Mr. Trent," he said, "but it is necessary
to take these facts into consideration. It will be an easy matter to
ask Miss Forman about the cases. If she denies all knowledge of them
and has no idea how they came to be in her wardrobe, we surely have a
clue to work on. We must be able to discover who could get to her room
and put them there. Perhaps it was done during the Treasure Hunt, for
then intrusions into some state-rooms were permitted--."

"Not Miss Forman's."

"No, but Miss Barnes went in there--at my request--and the one who
'planted' the cases may have done so, too."

"Yes," Trent was holding himself well in hand. "Yes, it may be so.
Suppose I ask Miss Forman about it at once. I left her in her deck
chair, taking tea."

"Yes. Just a moment, Mr. Trent. Have you any suspicions at all--in any
direction?"

"Not suspicions, Captain. But there are a few ways to look--a few
people who might be questioned. For instance, the man, Hudder. You
know, in Detective Stories it is frequently the valet or butler who is
the villain. In this instance, it is peculiarly probable that Hudder is
involved. He knew his master, as no one else on board did. He had every
chance in the world to do the dreadful deed. He had unquestioned access
to the Bronze Hand, and--," Trent paused impressively, "he had ample
opportunity to take those cases, having himself stolen the jewels--to
Miss Forman's room and secrete them where they were found. That is my
opinion as to what happened, and I've not the slightest doubt you will
find I'm right."

Trent sat back, with the aspect of a competent and complacent Sherlock
Holmes, and Sally told Hal Mallory afterward, that she could almost
hear him saying, "Elementary, Watson, elementary."

The Captain listened attentively and then said:

"You spoke of a few people--who else?"

"Well, I hate to mention names, but I suppose it must be done. I don't
like the way Mr. Camper talks and acts. He seems to me like a man with
a secret, and I can't help the feeling that he knows more than he has
told. Both he and his wife are of a pushing, intrusive sort, yet when
you ask them anything, they evade your questions."

"The Campers, eh? Anyone else?"

"No, unless it might be Andrews, the room steward. I have a
hunch--that's what we detectives call it--a hunch, that this
particularly grewsome murder was not committed by one of the First
Class passengers. It seems to me the work of a brutal mind, a man
of the lower orders, without heart, soul or conscience. Gentlemen,
so-called, have committed murder, but they shoot or stab--they do not
batter, like a caveman, and with such a terrific weapon. No club or
bludgeon could have done the work of that fearful bronze hand!"

"You knew Cox, Mr. Trent?"

"Only on board. I've heard him hold forth in the smoking room, and I've
seen him frolicking about with the youngsters, but I can't say that I
knew him. Miss Barnes, here, knew him far better than I did."

Sally, who had been sitting silent, broke into the conversation.

"Yes, I did know him pretty well. That is, I knew the side he showed us
young people. And he was as nice as nice. He was gay, genial, and very
generous. He treated us as a big, kind uncle might. But that wasn't all
there was to Oscar Cox. No sir! That man was deep--oh, but deep! He had
a diabolical charm--don't laugh--he did! Oh, not like a Sheik--I know
what I'm talking about--more like a--a Power of Darkness. If he wanted
a thing, he'd move Heaven and earth, but he'd get it. Yes, sir! And
he could bend anybody to his will, not by persuasion, but by absolute
domination. Now, don't think all this showed out in his gay friendship
with us youngsters, but I read that man, oh, you bet I did!"

"You show great divination of character, Miss Barnes," the Captain
said, smiling a little.

"But it's all true, every word of it. And here's what he said to me,
one day: 'Before I leave this ship, I'll tell you something that will
knock you all silly with astonishment. By Gad, I will!' That's what
he said, and by the earnest way he spoke, I knew he meant it. So, I
tell you he had some secret, some big secret, and he meant to make
it public before we landed. Oh, I don't mean it was a bad secret, I
don't know what it was. Only--I do believe that his--his death, was the
result of that secret. Or mixed up with it somehow. I mean somebody
killed him because of the secret."

"Miss Barnes," the Captain said, kindly, "I've carried many passengers
across the ocean, and I think I may say, that fully half of them had
secrets. More, I think fully half the earth's population has secrets. I
own I can't get excited over the news Mr. Cox meant to divulge."

"And, too," Trent offered, "the man was an awful liar. I say that
dispassionately, for it is true. He told conflicting tales on many
subjects, especially of a mythical nephew, of great prowess, who
cropped up one day in Boston and the next day in Timbuctoo."

"Yes," and the Captain smiled reminiscently, "I've heard him tell of
his namesake nephew. Well, Mr. Trent, what do you advise as the next
step? It seems to me there ought to be some sort of an inquiry. I
won't say Inquest, as we have no coroner, no jury, no witnesses. But I
propose to get together a few people and ask questions of and before
them all. This may lead to new disclosures which we could get in no
other way. I know that both you and Mr. Nash have done all you can in
the way of private investigation and technical detective work, but, as
you will be the first to admit, it hasn't amounted to much. So, I shall
exercise my prerogative of absolute authority and carry out my own
plan. If nothing comes of it, at least there will be no harm done."

Trent was terribly upset. It seemed to him there might be great harm
done by the Captain's plan. Though he had scoffed at the idea of Maisie
Forman's connection with the case, it had stirred his heart to vague
forebodings. There was much about her that was mysterious, much that
was strange and inexplicable.

Why had she tried to jump overboard? Why had she told no one of her
home life or circumstances?

As if to harass him further, Sally spoke up.

"Do, Captain, and I'll help you get up the party. We'll have Hudder, of
course, and Andrews. And, then, let me see, the two Campers, and Miss
Forman; by the way, Captain the whole ship is talking about that girl."

"Why, Miss Barnes?"

"Oh, just because she's so mysterious. At first, they merely kicked
because she went high-hatting around, and wouldn't speak to anybody.
But lately there have been rumors--just vague hints, you know, that
she's queer."

"Queer, how?" Trent's eyes glared at the volatile Sally.

She looked at him steadily, and returned:

"She walks around, late at night, after everybody else is in bed.
There, tie that up in a pink ribbon and take it home! I'm sorry to
knock your inamorata but, as I see it, you're going to lay down on this
job, and--I think I'll have to lend a hand." Then Sally's impish little
face broke into a lovely smile. "Now don't think for a minute I'm agin
Miss Forman--I'm for her--miles for her! But she's got to be told that
she'll find the footlights farther front--and I suppose I've got to be
the one to broadcast it to her."

Trent hesitated. He resented Sally's impudence, he resented her remarks
about Maisie, but, also, he sensed her attitude as a defender, a
helper. Did he want her? He didn't know, and at his irresolute face,
Sally burst out laughing.

"Don't worry, Mr. Trent, I'm not going to eat the girl. Well, go ahead,
Captain, fix up your party. Ask Mr. Sherman Mason, he's a wise bird, if
ever there was one, and Mr. Craig, too. You need people like that for
ballast. Then, with Polly Nash and Hal Mall and me, I guess we'll call
the invitation list closed. Oh, you might add Miss Gibbs. Silly Lily
they call her, but she's nobody's fool."

"Miss Barnes," and Captain Van Winkle looked seriously at the girl, "I
admit I have heretofore looked upon you as a--."

"As a half-witted flapper," Sally put in, coolly, when he hesitated.

"Your own words," he took it up, with equal coolness. "But today I've
learned your true worth. If you will continue to help me, I shall be
grateful. But I want to exact secrecy. It is not the thing to spread
our plans at large, and I'd like your promise."

"Put it there!" and Sally held out an impertinent hand. "Your word is
my law and if I couldn't keep secrets better than some men, I'd take a
correspondence course in silence!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Trent went at once in search of Miss Forman. She was not in her deck
chair, so he scribbled a hasty note and sent it to her room, begging
her to meet him on the upper deck, where he had saved her life that
night.

He did not word it thus, but she understood.

He went up and found a secluded nook for them, and had two chairs in
readiness when she appeared.

She was already dressed for dinner, and wore a light wrap over her
yellow chiffon gown. Round her neck was her string of exquisite pearls,
and as she seated herself, Trent noted with a peculiar sensation that
the clasp was a brilliant and beautiful square cut diamond.

"I asked you to come out because--because I want to talk with you," he
said, a little lamely, as she looked inquiringly at him.

"Do you know, I thought that might be the reason," she laughed, and
then she gave a little sigh of content as she settled herself in her
chair.

The deck was empty save for themselves; everybody was dressing for
dinner, and the spot was ideal for a chat.

The sun was still well above the horizon, but it was making its way
downward through a tangle of crimson and gold and blue, and the
reflections were on softly rolling waves.

A little breeze stirred the gold bronze tendrils of Maisie's hair,
and her fine face looked sweeter than ever as she turned it to Trent
confidingly.

"I'm glad you sent for me," she said. "I was listless, and I dressed
early thinking I'd come out for a while before dinner. So, here we are."

"Yes," he said, with an answering smile, "here we are. Oh, Maisie, I
love you so--can you--do you--want me to?"

She sat upright and looked at him.

"Are you in your right mind?" she said, softly.

"Never saner. I didn't mean to blurt it out like that--but I had to.
Tell me, Maisie, tell me--."

"Tell you what?"

"Tell me everything! Tell me that you love me, that you're glad I love
you, that you will marry me, and that we'll live happy ever after!"

His spirits rose as he saw no reproof in her glance, but she did look
puzzled.

"Max," she said, quietly, "there's a reason. Why this avowal just now?"

He stared at her. "I suppose it is precipitate. But, it's love at first
sight, and all that sort of thing."

Maisie looked off at the sea and sky, and said, as if to herself:

"There's no moon, he isn't moonstruck. There's not enough sun left to
think he's sunstruck. Wake up, Max!"

She smiled at him indulgently, as at a foolish child, but he saw the
light of happiness in her eyes, the hint of joy in the dawning flush on
her cheeks.

"Good God, Maisie!" he cried, "if to hear that much so enhances your
beauty, what will you be when I tell you more!"

"Silly!" and she flushed a little deeper. "And, my Lord, do you already
assume that I fall into your hand at your asking, like a ripe plum?"

"Peach, not plum; and of course you're going to say 'Yes.' Eventually,
why not now?"

"If this is a proposal, it strikes a flippant note," she said,
musingly, and Trent at once turned serious.

"I don't mean to, darling. My love for you is the deepest, truest,
sweetest thing in my whole nature. It has grown quickly but none the
less surely and sanely, in these few days. Please tell me, sweetheart,
please tell me you want it."

He leaned over to her chair, taking both her hands and looking
imploringly into her face.

Maisie Forman was very beautiful just then. For the first time in
her life she heard words of love that awakened a response in her own
breast. For the first time she was asked for love by one to whom she
was glad to give it. Other men had proposed to her, other men had
begged for her favor, but to none of them had her own heart said "yes."

Now, and though she had known it before he told her, now she was spoken
to by the man she loved, the man she wanted.

For a moment she was silent, dumb with the glory of it.

"Dear," she said, very quietly, "dear," and her inflection of the
simple word conveyed to him more than the wildest protestations of
affection could have done, "I cannot answer you now. I will--at some
other time."

She looked away a moment, and then said, lightly:

"Come, you must run and dress for dinner. You will be late."

"No, sit still." He spoke with sudden determination. "Maisie, listen.
There is something I must say to you, and say quickly. Your name is
being spoken by the passengers--."

"Yes, I know. Some of the cats told me."

"But you don't know all. You are going to be called on to explain--."

"To explain!"

He could scarce tell whether her face paled with anger or with fear. It
was perilously near the latter, he thought.

"Yes. Oh, how can I tell you--but I must. Maisie--Miss Forman," his
deep distress and concern made him seek refuge in formality, "where did
you get that string of pearls you wear?"

No stammering schoolboy could have done the thing more stupidly. No
village idiot could have been a greater blunderbuss.

Yet his tragic, almost fierce tones, told her this was no jest, no
light query.

Unconsciously she clasped the pearls with one hand and stared at him
with frightened eyes.

Yes, frightened, he was sure now.

"What--what do you mean?" she stammered.

"What I say," he returned. He was getting hold of himself now, and
this thing must be gone through with. "Surely, you've no objection to
telling me. Who gave them to you?"

"I fail to recognize your right to put such a question."

"Perhaps not. Then, tell me this. From what jeweler did they come? At
what shop were they bought?"

Her face cleared a little.

"Oh, you're only asking as a connoisseur. Why, they came, I think, from
Cartany's. They are lovely, aren't they?"

"Yes. And who gave them to you?"

"Now, see here, my friend. I'm not engaged to you, you know. I didn't
say 'yes' to your extraordinary proposal of a short time since. I
object to these questions, and I refuse to answer."

"But, Maisie, listen. Oh, my dear heart, you'll have to listen. I'll
have to tell you. Among the papers of that man who was killed, that Mr.
Cox, they found some jeweler's bills from Cartany's and one was for a
string of pearls like these--."

"How does that interest me, do you think?"

Her hauteur was suddenly in evidence and her tones were like cut steel.

"Because it interests others. Because the pearl necklace itemized had a
square diamond clasp. Because--," he decided on frankness, "because the
case that belongs to the necklace was found in your room--."

"In my room! Another case, beside my own?"

"Oh, dearest, is it your own? Can you prove it?"

The light of hope came to Trent's eyes, as he awaited the answer.

"What have I to prove? This is my own necklace--given to me by--by a
friend. I refuse to be quizzed or questioned in the matter. Perhaps
you'll be good enough to tell me what it's all about. Why are you
telling me these strange things and who is making the trouble?"

"Yes, I'll tell you."

They were standing now. Trent held her by her two arms, and with steady
eyes looking into her own, and in a steady voice, he told her.

"Among the Cox papers, they found receipted bills for a pearl necklace
also three diamond bracelets and a diamond buckle. The jewels cannot
be found, but all five of the cases were discovered today, in your
wardrobe, behind a hatbox."

At first, Maisie Forman looked steadily back into the deep eyes fixed
on her own. As she continued to gaze, her face grew whiter and whiter,
until, with a stifled, choking catch of her breath, she turned aside
her own eyes and drew herself away from him.

Then, turning back, she said, suddenly:

"You knew this, just now, when you--you told me--."

"Yes," he took her gently in his arms. "Yes, I love you, and always
shall. For myself, I ask no explanation, I put no inquiries. But, oh,
my Beloved, others will question you. Others will demand explanation.
And, so--so, my dearest, let me help you."

"What do _you_ think about the cases found in my wardrobe?"

"I think they were planted there," he returned, promptly.

"Planted?"

"Yes, that means put there by somebody, with an intent to get you into
trouble, or at least, to shift trouble from his own shoulders."

"Oh. Yes--yes, I see, that's what they were--planted!"

And then, with a strange, tantalizing, almost mocking smile, she ran
away from him, and disappeared down the corridor that led toward her
own cabin.




                              CHAPTER XI

                              THE JEWELS


Maisie Forman did not remain in her stateroom more than a minute.

She emerged again and returned to the spot where she had left Trent.
He had disappeared and the girl looked carefully about the deck. She
saw no one, and advancing to the rail, she gave one more quick glance
behind her, and then raising her arm flung from her hand something. It
flew far out to sea descending in a long curve to the water. And as it
fell it glittered in the still brilliant rays of the setting sun.

Maisie clasped her hands and stood, with unseeing eyes, staring across
the waves.

A light touch fell on her arm, and Sally Barnes, arrayed in a saucy
pink dance frock, stood beside her.

Unlike her usual expression, the girl's face was grave, even accusing.

"What did you throw away?" she demanded, with an air of authority.

Maisie turned to her with such a forbidding look, that a less
determined questioner would have been daunted.

"My own property," she answered calmly, though a red flush on either
cheek told of her anger at this intrusion.

"May I go with you--will you take me to your room for a few minutes?
Oh, Miss Forman, don't refuse--you don't know what you're up against! I
am your friend--see, _friend_. Now come!"

She almost pushed the unwilling girl and as they reached the cabin, it
was Sally who opened the unlocked door and they entered.

"Now this is going to be one intensive little conference," Miss Barnes
declared, as they sat down. "I've got a dinner date, and then I'm
stepping out with Puppy to the dance--it's a big one tonight. But,
first, I've got to look after you."

Maisie gasped.

"Look after me! Miss Barnes, there are boundaries--."

"Yes, I know, but I'm not _to_ 'em. Not yet. Now, you listen, Miss
Forman, just listen a minute. You're in bad, and you're going to be in
worse, unless you watch your step. Where did those jewel cases come
from that I found in your wardrobe? Yes, it was I who found them. You
needn't look at me like a siren. Your face is a real ship-launcher, and
all that, and you can put it all over the men--any man, but it doesn't
get you anywhere with little Sally. Where did those five jewel cases
come from?"

But Maisie had found herself. Her first shock of surprise over, she was
more than a match for this sputtering child.

"Oh," she laughed, lightly, "I know what you mean now. Yes, I heard
they were found there. But I have nothing to do with them. They were
planted there."

"Planted! Oho," said the astute one, "I see. Max Trent has been
coaching you. You'd never got off that word so glibly if he hadn't!"

The quick flush on Maisie's cheeks told Sally she was right, and all at
once she changed her tactics.

"Dear Miss Forman," she said, "please don't think me a silly fool. Nor
a butter-in. Honestly, I am here to help you, and if you won't accept
my help, at least listen to what I want to say. Those cases held the
jewels that belonged to Mr. Cox, the man who was killed. It is thought
the man who killed him did it to rob him of the jewelry. I mean, he
killed Cox, because he already had the jewels, and Mr. Cox knew it and
was after him. But all that doesn't matter, the men are looking after
that. What worries me is the way they are continually dragging in your
name. And all the ship is talking about it, and the stories grow bigger
and bigger every time they're told. It is said that you prowl around
at night when you ought to be in bed, and that--well, I'll out with
it--and that pearl necklace you wear is the one that is billed to Mr.
Cox."

"Is that all?" asked Maisie, with perfect composure, and with icy calm.

"Why, yes--except that they say you're mysterious, and nobody knows who
you are or why you're travelling alone, and you won't speak to anybody
hardly, and they say that Mr. Mason is in love with you--."

"Mr. Mason!" Maisie's blank amazement was unfeigned. "Mr. Mason! Why I
scarcely know the man!"

"They say you know him better than you pretend, and that you and he are
in cahoots--you know--oh, how shall I put it--jewel thieves!"

The words were blurted out as Sally burst into tumultuous sobs.

Maisie Forman laughed.

It wasn't an amused laugh, it wasn't a pleasant laugh to hear, but it
was intelligible. It was the laugh of one who is laughing at Fate, one
who could smile as they piled up the fagots, one who would laugh in the
face of death.

Sally sat up.

"Don't do that!" she said, sharply. "My, you give me the shivers!"

"You have given me the shivers, Sally," Maisie said: "Now, look here,
is this all true? Are they really saying these things?"

"Not right out, you know. But I hear a lot of talk and that's what
they whisper, among intimates. To strangers, they say, 'Ah, yes, Miss
Forman. Beautiful girl, but very reserved and exclusive. All alone,
yes. No, I don't know anything about her, I'm sure.' That's the way
they talk, then."

Sally's mimicry was so perfect, Maisie had to smile.

"Let me think a minute," she said; "but you're in a hurry. Run along,
child."

Sally looked wistful.

"Not till you tell me what you're going to do."

"To do?"

"You heard me."

Again Maisie laughed. The chit was so pert.

"Why, I don't know what I shall do," she said, lightly. "What would you
do?"

"Me? Oh, I'd come right out and tell the story of my life and what's
my real name. Why, how you jumped then! Isn't Maisie Forman your real
name?"

But the bait didn't work.

"Go on, what else do you advise."

"That you tell where you got these," she touched the gleaming pearls at
Maisie's throat, "and who gave them to you and all. And then, that you
mix a little with the people on board, not chummy, you know, but just
don't be quite so Ritzy. You're a darling, _I_ think but the censors
don't agree with me. And," the bobbed head drew close to the masses of
gold bronze hair, "tell Mamma what you threw overboard just now."

"There, there," and Maisie shook a playful finger, "that's only idle
curiosity. I shan't gratify it. Curiosity is vulgar."

"Well, you're not!" and Sally sighed. She looked about at the dainty,
though not elaborate appointments and the pretty toilet things on the
dresser. "Whatever you are, you're not vulgar."

"I should hope not," and Maisie's face showed horror at the thought.

"Well, I must pop off. I haven't learned much, have I?"

"No. Did you come to learn? I thought you came to dispense information.
You've certainly done that."

"Yes. Will you profit by it? Will you promise--?"

"I'll think it over. Let that be enough promise for the present. And--I
thank you, Sally. Your action was kind. Your motive flawless. I thank
you more than I can tell you. I--I am very miserable, Sally--."

The proud head bowed and Sally's arms went round the shaking shoulders.

"Nonsense!" Maisie cried, suddenly lifting a smiling face, though there
was a suspicion of moisture on her eyelashes. "I didn't mean to do
that. I never break down--whatever I do, Sally, I don't break down.
Now, run away and play."

Sally went, and Maisie Forman turned to her mirror.

Carefully, she rearranged her disturbed hair, touched her pale cheeks
with a mere hint of rouge, dusted her nose with powder, and then, her
head held high and an angry gleam in her eyes, she went down to dinner.

Trent watched her enter the room, thinking how queenly she was, and how
well her air of haughty reserve became her.

Sally Barnes watched her, too, and came to the somewhat obvious
conclusion that her plea had been of little effect.

       *       *       *       *       *

That evening the Captain held an Inquiry.

A man of action, he had decided that the rumors about Miss Forman were
too numerous and insistent to be ignored. He had concluded, too, that
he must enlist some new help, for Max Trent had showed only too clearly
his loss of interest in the detective pursuit.

In a confab with Pollard Nash, it had been decided to call for the
advice of some men of standing and experience, who had not yet been
questioned.

"Disinterested witnesses, that's what we want," the Captain said,
resentful of Trent's defection.

"I've watched the men in the smoking room, when we've talked over
things," Nash said, "and I've judged more by their attitudes than by
what they say. I think if you call in Mr. Allen, and Mr. Stanhope,
you'll get good, sound judgment."

"Mr. Stanhope is that quiet chap, with glasses."

"Yes, he says very little, but when he does make a remark or ask a
question, it's always right to the point."

The gathering in the Captain's room was more the nature of a pleasant
reception than anything official.

That is, at first, but when about twenty had assembled, Captain Van
Winkle showed his hand.

"Although unpleasant," he said, "my duty is plain. I have two grave
responsibilities suddenly thrust upon me, which I must deal with so
far as I can, before landing at Liverpool. One is the dastardly murder
of one of my passengers, the other is, to locate, if possible, a large
amount of valuable jewelry, which we have reason to think Mr. Cox had
in his possession. I have called you together to ask both advice and
help. Passengers can hear and see and learn a great deal which cannot
come to the eyes or ears of a Captain. So, in the interest of justice
and humanity, I ask you all to help me by telling anything you may
know, which may shed light on these two mysteries."

"May I ask if you wish us to tell you our opinions, Captain, or only to
relate facts known to us?"

This query, made in a pleasant, well-modulated voice, came from the man
called Stanhope.

He was dark, lean, middle-aged, with a calm, courteous demeanor.

There were scores of men on board whom nobody knew, and this man was
one of them. It is always so on a liner. Perhaps a quarter of the
passengers are known to everybody, both by name and by appearance.
Another quarter may be generally or widely, but not universally known.
A third quarter is known to few, and the rest known almost not at all.

This implies no invidious distinction, but is merely the general state
of affairs.

Stanhope chanced to be one of those practically unknown, and all
present looked at him with interest.

"Both, Mr. Stanhope," the Captain answered him. "Can you help?"

"I am afraid not; I have heard only the current gossip."

"I can help," said Owen Camper, with an air of decision. "I know,
Captain Van Winkle, it is almost unpardonable to introduce a lady's
name in such connection, but I feel it my duty to tell you that gossip
is rife concerning Miss Forman, doubtless known, at least by sight, to
you all."

"Yes?" said Captain Van Winkle, encouragingly.

"It is known all over the ship that the cases of the missing jewels
were found in Miss Forman's stateroom, concealed in her best hats!"

"Never mind the hats," the Captain murmured, "go on."

"Therefore, as one of your passengers, and as one interested in aiding
our Captain in any way possible, I submit, that Miss Forman should be
summoned and questioned regarding the jewel cases."

A few voices were raised in protest at this, but more were of
consenting opinion.

Captain Van Winkle's face was stern, and bore an expression that might
have served as a model for a statue of Justice.

"I regret the necessity of such action," he said, at last, "but I feel
that Mr. Camper's suggestion should be followed out. If Miss Forman has
an explanation to make, she will doubtless be glad of an opportunity to
make it. If not, it is right that we make the request, at least."

A message was sent to Maisie Forman, requesting her presence, and very
soon the girl appeared.

She was accompanied by Max Trent, and though his face showed a veiled
belligerence, the countenance of Miss Forman was as serene as if no
care lay on her heart and no sin on her conscience.

"It is assumed, Miss Forman," the Captain said, with the utmost
courtesy, "that you will have no objections to answering a few
questions, even though asked in this semi-public manner."

"None at all, Captain Van Winkle," she replied, and though she showed
her customary hauteur, she gave him a hint of a smile.

Except for a few who already harbored resentment in their hearts, the
sympathies of her hearers went out to her.

"You were acquainted with the late Mr. Cox?"

"He was introduced to me on board, soon after leaving New York," she
replied, quietly. "After that I saw him every day, but I think I
talked with him not more than two or three times--if that is being
acquainted."

The smile recurred, and Maisie's cause, whatever it might be, was more
ardently espoused by the men present.

"Did you know that Mr. Cox had with him on board, some gems of immense
value?"

"I knew absolutely nothing of Mr. Cox's possessions of any value, and I
had positively no knowledge of any jewels he may have owned."

The girl's voice rang out clear and true. She was not insistent, she
made no grandstand play, but her straightforward gaze and her proud,
honest tones carried conviction.

But Captain Van Winkle had not piloted small cities across the ocean
for years without having learned that the appearance of honesty is one
of dishonesty's strongest cards.

Undaunted, though not unimpressed, he went on.

"Those jewels, Miss Forman, have disappeared."

"Disappeared from where?"

This calm inquiry placed the Captain more than ever on his guard.

"That we can't say, but we assume they were among Mr. Cox's luggage or
belongings. They are not to be found, but these cases," he opened a
drawer and produced them, "were found in your stateroom."

"Yes?" the lovely face showed a sense of injustice. "And may I ask why
my room was searched without my permission--in my absence? Why was I
not allowed to grant permission for that search, and assist in it?"

For perhaps the first time in his career, Captain Van Winkle felt
guilty of a breach of good manners. When he had commissioned Sally
Barnes to look for the jewels in Maisie Forman's stateroom, it had
been at the advice and under the influence of the "detective talk"
of Pollard Nash and Hal Mallory, and now in his own personal rôle
of gallant Captain, the procedure he had followed seemed mean and
despicable.

"You are quite right, Miss Forman, it should have been done that way.
But I am going to ask you to forgive it, and lend your aid at present,
if you can, to the unravelling of the mystery. How do you suppose the
cases came to be in your wardrobe?"

"I assume they were placed there by the person who robbed Mr. Cox, with
the intent, doubtless, of incriminating me in the affair."

Dispassionately, even uninterestedly, the girl looked about the room.

So far as her manner showed, the whole business was outside her
attention. It would seem that she took for granted the jewel cases had
been planted in her room, and had later been removed therefrom. To her,
then, the incident was closed.

But this very aloofness, this very indifference, awoke fresh suspicion
in the mind of the worldly-wise Captain.

If not a technical detective, he had at least a power of reading the
mental processes of others, and, too, he was given to quick action.

A brief whispered order sent an attendant on an errand, the result of
which was the immediate appearance of a stewardess.

Closely watching Maisie, his eyes alert for any danger or trouble to
her, Max Trent saw her pale a little and her fingers clinch slightly as
the woman entered.

"Your name?" the Captain said, briefly.

"Susan Magee, sir."

"Stewardess?"

"Yes sir."

"You have charge of Miss Forman's stateroom?"

"Yes sir."

"Very well. Now, Magee, have you ever seen these cases before?"

The woman gave one glance at the five leather jewel cases, and stood
silent, twisting the corner of her white apron.

"Answer!" said the Captain, amazed at her hesitation.

"Yes sir," her voice was a mere whisper and her lips quivered.

"Where?"

"In Miss Forman's room, sir."

"In her wardrobe?"

"No sir--in her dresser drawer." This was barely audible.

"Brace up, Magee," the Captain spoke kindly, but decidedly. "Were they
empty when they were in Miss Forman's dresser drawer?"

"I don't know sir. I never touched them."

"How do you know they were there?"

"I would see them, now and again, when Miss Forman might open the
drawer, sir."

"I see. And when did you see them? Only within the last day or two?"

"That I don't rightly know, sir. I should say longer ago than that."

Maisie Forman's clear voice broke the short silence that ensued.

"You can't be sure, Magee, that these are the same cases, can you?"

"No, Miss, I can't rightly be sure of that." She seemed relieved at
this suggestion.

"You only know that you saw some similar boxes in my possession?"

"That's all, Miss."

Captain Van Winkle was deeply impressed with Maisie's charm and beauty.
He admired her patrician bearing and aristocratic effect. But now, he
was beginning to be amazed at her poise and cleverness, especially the
latter.

And as her exceeding cleverness dawned upon him, he became more and
more suspicious of her good faith.

At any rate, he believed, the girl must have had a number of jewel
cases in her room, and if they were her own they would be there still
and could be brought forward. He determined to strike in another
direction while irons could yet be heated.

"Magee, you are here to answer questions truthfully and without any
personal bias. To your knowledge does Miss Forman ever go out of her
room late at night--very late?"

"She--she has done so, sir."

"Yes. And where did she go. Perhaps to the Baths?"

"Miss Forman's room has its private bath, sir."

"Can you tell me then, on what errand Miss Forman went from her room so
late?"

"I--I don't like to, sir."

"Tell, woman!" For the first time the Captain raised his voice.

"Well, one night--that would be Monday night, I was going off duty at
twelve o'clock, sir, and I saw Miss Forman come quietly out of Mr.
Cox's room and slip round to her own room, sir."

The silence was so heavy that one scarce dared look up.

Trent's face was drawn with an agony he could hardly control.

Amy Camper dropped her eyes to hide her joyous excitement. The men,
especially those disinterested witnesses who had been called in for
advice and judgment, looked at the floor, with instinctive effort to
spare the feelings of the girl, who now seemed in the position of the
prisoner in the dock.

But Maisie Forman herself, held her head high, her face was
impassive--only her eyes, tortured, despairing, hopeless, looked like
the eyes of a lost soul.

"Yes," the Captain's voice took up his task again, though he was
conscious of the same distress he had once felt he had to watch a
subordinate flogged.

"And was that the only time?" he went on.

"The next night, sir, Miss Forman tried to throw herself overboard."

"What?"

"Yes, sir, I think the poor girl is--."

"Stop! We are not asking you what you think. Did you rescue the young
lady?"

"Not I, sir. That young gentleman there did."

She pointed to Trent.

"I did," and Max Trent took up the cudgels. "Miss Forman is not at
all times responsible for her actions. This, Captain Van Winkle, must
explain to you a great many things otherwise mysterious. I sat on
deck Tuesday night, and I saw Miss Forman come out there. She walked
straight past me, with unseeing eyes, and climbed up on the rail. She
was just about to leap--or it seemed so--when I sprang and caught
her. She returned at once to her room, and I discovered that beyond
all doubt she had been walking in her sleep. The same explanation, I
assume, would cover her trip to Mr. Cox's room, if indeed she made
such a trip. The two rooms are at the ends of similar and contiguous
corridors and the mistake might easily be made, even by a person awake.
At any rate, to my positive knowledge Miss Forman had the merest
acquaintance with Oscar Cox."

"It doesn't require much acquaintance to enter a man's room and steal
his valuables," Owen Camper declared. "And the sleep-walking is a good
dodge, but it won't go down."

"Are you a sleep-walker, Miss Forman?" asked the Captain, directly.

"Not that I know of," she replied quietly, and a scornful smile curving
her lips.

"No," the stewardess broke in, irrepressibly, "the lady is not that,
but--oh, sir, let me speak--but she isn't in her right mind. Only this
evening, just before dinner, I saw her throw her jewelry far out to
sea."

This interruption went unreproved, for Captain Van Winkle's mind was in
a state of chaos.

If Miss Forman was really demented, or had some form of mental
derangement, that would explain nearly all if not all of the mysteries.
She certainly seemed sane enough, but that was no sure criterion.

He cut the Gordian knot. Rising, he bowed with grace, announced that
the meeting was over and said good night.




                              CHAPTER XII

                               STANHOPE


Most of the men drifted to the smoking room.

Some possessed enough chivalry to refrain from public comment on the
proceedings, but others had no scruples against discussing every phase
of the case.

"Off her nut, eh," scoffed Owen Camper. "Not that queen! She knows
what she's about and which side her bread is buttered. Jump overboard,
indeed! She'd do anything to get the sympathy of the public."

"She doesn't have to do anything like that to get my sympathy,"
declared Pollard Nash. "That poor girl is in a fix. And I believe she's
entirely the victim of circumstances. I don't believe for a minute she
stole those jewels--if indeed, there were any jewels to steal."

"What was in those empty cases, then?" demanded Camper. "Don't talk
bosh just because the thief is a pretty girl."

"Perhaps it's kleptomania," suggested Hal Mallory. "I've heard rich
women are sometimes afflicted with that."

"How do you know she is a rich woman?" countered Camper. "Lives by her
wits, I'll bet."

A murmur of disapproval went round the room.

Then Sherman Mason spoke.

"Look here, I'll set you straight on a few points. Miss Forman is
a well born and well brought up young lady. She is the daughter of
Jonathan Forman, a man well known in New York business circles. She
is an only child and lives with her father on Madison Avenue. Her
mother has been dead many years, but an aunt has always had charge
of the girl. That is the extent of my knowledge of Miss Forman's
circumstances, but I want it to go on record that her name is not one
to be bandied about so lightly."

Camper was abashed, for Sherman Mason was not only a power financially
and socially, but he was a big, strong man, physically, and like all
bullies, Camper was a physical coward.

"Then," he said, sarcastically, "granting she is such a fine young
lady, how do you explain her going to Cox's room and stealing his gems,
and then when discovery was imminent, throwing them overboard?"

"I don't explain it, nor do I admit that those are proven facts.
But I advise you, Mr. Camper, to be a little more moderate in your
statements."

Mason calmly lighted his cigar, but his cold, steely gaze was fixed on
Camper in a way that made that bounder squirm.

Yet Mason gave no further hint that he was at all personally interested
in Miss Forman. He seemed merely a squire of dames, in general, and
most of the men present mentally applauded his attitude.

"I knew Cox slightly," Mason resumed, "though I was not a social friend
of his. But I have taken over his queer servant, Hudder. The chap was
at loose ends and he is remarkable in many ways. Wonderful valet and
all that, and glad to get a position."

"Gee! I wouldn't want the beggar around!" exclaimed Allen. "Aren't you
afraid he'll do for you with that Bronze Hand, same's he did for Cox?"

"Why, do you think Hudder killed Cox?"

"Certainly I do. Most people on board think so. Who else?"

"Oh, how can anyone tell? Just think, here's this brutal, this fearful
murder, and the villain right here on this ship, and not a thing can be
done to find him out! The Captain's Inquiry meeting brought out nothing
of value. There can be no Inquest, because there's no Coroner and no
Jury, and, therefore, no verdict. Consequently, of course, no arrest,
and Friend Murderer walks the decks serene and safe!"

"Yes, a nice sociable kind of murder," said the irrepressible Mallory.
"Sort of Pink Tea murder, nothing real about it but the victim. It's
all very well for Captain Van Winkle to hold his little sociables, and
then say, 'Thank you all so much. Good night. Come again.' But where
does that get us?"

"But Captain--."

"Oh, Lord, I'm not blaming the Captain. He's done all he can, and a
lot more than some captains would have done. But what we want on the
job is a real, live detective, who could read the clues which must lie
around thicker'n spatter, only we can't see 'em."

"They'll get that sort from Scotland Yard as soon as we land. They'll
be waiting for us at Liverpool."

"Yes, and what good will that do? They can't hold this shipload of
passengers while they go sniffing around with a lens, like a hound on a
scent. There never was a detective story where the Tec didn't go round
like a hound on a scent. And by the time the hound is through scenting,
the criminal will be off to Paris and the Riviera!"

"There seems to be an astonishing lack of clues," said Stanhope, in his
mild way.

"Seems to be, yes!" and Mallory scowled. "But I tell you that's only
'cause we can't see things right before our eyes! I admit I can't, and
I rather fancy myself as a detective. Now, take those gloves--."

"What gloves?" asked Stanhope.

Mallory told, then, of the gloves that had been found by Sally Barnes.

"Gloves ought to mean something," Stanhope said, musingly.

"Are you a detective?" It was Polly Nash who spoke. He had been sitting
listening, dumb and despondent over his failure to achieve any
brilliant results from his efforts.

"A sort of one," Stanhope said, smiling.

"Oh, Lord, we all seem to be a sort of one. I wish we had the real
thing."

"I never heard of a case so lacking in essential details," Mallory
said; "no coroner and all that, but also no suspect, no motive--."

"Oh, yes," Mason interrupted, "the motive was robbery. As I see it, the
murderer stole the gems, then killed his man, then tried to plant the
evidence on Miss Forman."

"Well, you _have_ doped it all out," said Nash, with pretended
admiration. "Only trouble seems to be that we don't know the murderer,
we can't find the gems, and we haven't yet extricated Miss Forman from
her net of difficulties."

"You'll never find the murderer," Camper said, having recovered his
self-esteem. "I tell you that hand was flung--see, flung from a
distance--."

"Then we should look among the champion quoit throwers or
shuffle-boarders," said Stanhope, smiling. "Now, I don't think it was
flung at all."

"Why not?" Camper sounded belligerent.

"Well, first, why do you think it was?"

"Because by doing so, the murderer could be some distance off, could
watch his chance, and fling the thing so quickly, and then turn away,
that even if he were seen a moment after, he would not be suspected."

"Clever, very clever," Stanhope said. "But Mr. Camper, have you
examined the wounds on the dead man's face?"

"Heavens, no! I wouldn't do it for a million dollars!"

"I did," said Stanhope, gravely. "And let me tell you gentlemen, those
gashes were clawed in, not made by a flung missile."

"What!" cried Nash, looking with fresh interest at Stanhope.

"Yes, and moreover, they were made by someone standing behind Mr. Cox."

"Behind him! But his chair was always back against the wall."

"Yes, and that wall is the outer wall of the ship's Library. And there
is a window just there, right above Mr. Cox's chair--not a porthole,
but a square window. Remember?"

"Yes."

"It was through that window that the brute leaned out, and committed
his fearful crime. There was no one in the Library, not even the
Library steward, for all were out on the stairs, looking at or joining
in the general festivities."

"That's fine reasoning, Mr. Stanhope," said Mason. "You say you
examined the--the--."

"The wounds, yes. It was not a pleasant thing to do, but I felt that
some information might be gained that way. The depth and direction of
the terrible gashes show beyond all doubt, that the clawing hand was
used from behind and above Mr. Cox's face. The embalmer will deliver
the body to the authorities in Liverpool and what I say will then be
evident."

"Well," Camper said, "that's good work, Mr. Stanhope--fine sleuthing,
but it doesn't get us anywhere. Now, can you go ahead and find the Man
in the Library?"

"No," and Stanhope smiled ruefully, "that's as far as I've gone. The
finding of the gloves proves that the murderer was too canny to leave
finger-prints on the bronze hand--but nobody leaves finger-prints
nowadays. They're all too wise."

"After all, is Oscar Cox much loss to the community?"

This remark in cold, scornful accents came from Craig, who heretofore
had not said much.

"That's aside the point," said Pollard Nash, severely. "If we are
citizens of a law-abiding country, it is our duty to apprehend any
criminal, irrespective of the worth of his victim."

"And Cox was as good as the average," Mason put in.

"Awful boaster," commented Craig. "Look at those stories now, about his
nephew! Sometimes that chap was in Europe, then again in Asia, Africa
or America."

"A traveller," said somebody else.

"Yes, but now the nephew is a parson, and next an artist, or a
blacksmith."

"Not a blacksmith," said Mason, smiling. "I'll set you straight on the
nephew business. As a member of a club Cox belonged to, I've often
heard him yarning his big stories. And the truth is, he had five
brothers, and each of them named his oldest son after Oscar Cox. So,
there are a lot of namesake nephews, and it pleased him to mystify his
hearers with apparently conflicting tales, which were all true."

"Then, that's that!" and Nash smiled. "Wish we could clear up all the
other mysteries as easily."

Max Trent stuck to Maisie like a shadow, that is, when she would let
him. After the session in the Captain's room, she told Trent she must
go at once to her cabin, for her nerves were unstrung and she was on
the verge of a nervous breakdown.

"And I don't wonder," said Trent, in the gentlest way. "You shall go,
dear, very shortly, but first take a few turns with me on the upper
deck. The fresh air will help calm you, and I just can't let you go
quite yet. It's early, you know."

She smiled faintly, and went with him in silence.

In silence, too, they walked several times around the deck. It was
little used at night, and the few who were up there were absorbed in
their own affairs.

At last, he found two chairs in a pleasant corner, and they sat down
there.

"I don't know what you must think--," Maisie began, but Trent
interrupted her.

"Then I'll tell you what I think." He leaned over and drew her light
wrap more around her shoulders. "I think you're the dearest, sweetest
thing God ever made. I think you're in a peck of trouble through no
fault of your own. I think you're going to confide in me to whatever
extent you choose, but if you tell me nothing at all, I still think
you are the purest, best woman in the world, and you are mine. If you
don't love me already, you are going to do so, and if you wish me to
leave that subject for future discussion, as you implied, I will do
that. Only understand this thoroughly, I am yours, to command, to
use, to lean upon, to consult, to ballyrag, to offend, to deceive,
to mystify--and, after this trouble is all over, to marry. There, my
Little Girl, how do you like that?"

"Oh, Max--." And she buried an agonized face in her hands.

"Only one thing," he said, soberly--"Maisie--you're--you're not
married, are you?"

She showed a scared, white face.

"Oh--I don't know--oh, no, no, of course not!"

And then, with one of her sudden motions, she jumped from the chair
and ran away to her own room.

Trent sat thinking.

But his thoughts were so chaotic, so inextricable, that it could scarce
be called thinking.

What did she mean? What _did_ she mean?

In her room Maisie found Lily Gibbs awaiting her.

"Door wasn't locked, so I popped in," said that self-complacent person,
as Maisie plainly showed her surprise at the invasion.

"So I see."

"Mind if I look at you?"

"Not in the least. Shall I primp a bit?"

The comedy of the situation helped to restore Maisie's poise, and she
seated herself at her dressing table, and calmly proceeded to use her
vanity case, as if dressed for a party.

"How old are you?" said the strange visitor.

"Twenty-three."

"Why aren't you married?"

"Why aren't you?"

"Oh, pshaw, turn around here and look at me."

Not at all unwilling to be diverted by this farce. Maisie turned and
gazed calmly at the other.

She seemed to see a new Lily Gibbs. One with an earnest, kindly face,
with searching, but understanding eyes, with a sorry but sympathetic
smile.

Wondering, Maisie kept on looking at her. It seemed to her that Lily
was reading her very soul.

But she wasn't, for though Miss Gibbs pretended to clairvoyance and all
that, it was only pretence, and she had no more idea of what was in
Maisie Forman's soul, than Maisie had of what was in hers.

"Well," said Miss Gibbs, in a practical way, "you're in deep, aren't
you?"

"In deep?" said Maisie, who had long since learned that nothing so
confuses a questioner as to have words repeated.

"Yes, in deep trouble."

"Trouble?"

"Look here, Miss Forman, you could do a lot worse than to have me as a
friend."

Then Maisie forgot herself and spoke on impulse.

"Yes, I could have you as an enemy!"

Lily Gibbs flushed. "I didn't quite mean that, but really, my dear
girl, if you will let me--."

"I'll not let you do anything if you call me your dear girl! It's a
phrase I hate."

"Well, I guess you aren't mentally deranged, after all. I came in to
see if you were."

"Oh, so that's the latest rumor in the ship's higher circles, is it? It
got about quickly!"

"Yes, and strongly. I tell you, Miss Forman, you may be sane, but
you're a fool!"

"Who isn't?" Maisie spoke listlessly. "I don't so much mind these
ridiculous rumors, you know, except that I'm rather a conservative
person by nature and I hate to go on deck and hear everyone whispering
about me, and looking at me. Yet, I hate even worse to stay in my cabin
all the time. What can I do?"

"You hook up with me. See? Then, I'll be with you, and if anyone says
anything or even looks at you cross-eyed, I'll fix 'em!"

"How?" Maisie gave an amused smile.

"How? I'll talk about 'em, that's how! And that'll be quite enough, I
can tell you."

"Oh, I believe it. Now, Miss Gibbs, why are you willing to befriend me?
You know I am under all sorts of clouds, none of which, at present,
seems to show any silver lining."

"Yes, but that's all right, so long as you aren't demented. I have a
horror of folks who aren't all there."

"Oh, I'm all there. I assure you, I'm quite all there."

"I see you are. You couldn't fool me about that. I says to Amy Camper,
'I don't believe for one minute that girl's crazy, but I'm going to
find out'."

"And what did Mrs. Camper say to that?"

"Oh, she said you wouldn't let me in, and if you did you wouldn't talk
to me."

"Mistaken, wasn't she?" And then Maisie bestowed on her guest one of
her very best smiles, which completed the subjugation of Lily Gibbs.

"Oh, Miss Forman, how beautiful you are!" was the spontaneous tribute
of the plain-visaged spinster. "I'm so glad you're friendly with me.
Now, you listen to me. You move your deck chair over by mine--."

"Oh, no," and Maisie gave a distinct shudder. "You're over there by--."

"Yes. I know," and Lily watched her closely, "by Mr. Cox's chair. But I
can't come over by you--there's no chair vacant."

"We'll make Mr. Trent give up his. At least whenever we require it.
I quite understand and value your offer, Miss Gibbs. And I accept it
as frankly as you make it. I am alone, and I am bothered by the rude
curiosity of the people. It would be of great help to have you back of
me--I mean by my side, ready to help if intrusive people come round and
chatter. I wonder why you are so good to me."

Lily Gibbs did not tell the truth, which was merely that she was
gratifying her own curiosity and satisfying her own love of adventure
and excitement.

It was not, as she pretended, to help and comfort a friendless girl,
but to learn for herself what was the truth of the rumors about Maisie
Forman, and what was the real meaning of the mystery that surrounded
her.

Miss Gibbs existed on excitement, and her opportunities were limited.

Here was her chance, and if, incidentally, she could help the girl, she
had no objection to that.

A tap at the door interrupted their confab with a message from the
Captain, full of courteous apology, but requesting her presence at once.

"Since you're my friend, will you go with me?" Maisie asked, handing
Miss Gibbs the note to read.

Lily was a bit disappointed, for she had looked forward to some
immediate confidences, but they could come later.

So the two went to Captain Van Winkle's room at once.

The Captain had on his judicial air, and Maisie's heart sank. Here was
no occassion for engaging smiles or appealing femininity. It was to be
an interview of serious inquiry and perhaps accusation.

"Miss Forman," the Captain began, unheeding her companion, "as you
know, my duties in the present crisis are painful but inexorable. I
will therefore, without apology, ask you some questions which I expect
you to answer."

"Yes, Captain Van Winkle," Maisie returned, and there was not a flicker
of an eyelid to betray apprehension of any sort.

"You have been in the habit of sending wireless messages to your father
during this voyage."

"Yes."

"You have sometimes employed code words, or words whose meaning has
been prearranged between your father and yourself?"

"Yes," Maisie's wonderment was unfeigned, and Lily Gibbs fairly lapped
up the situation.

"Naturally, in our investigations, all the wireless messages sent by
passengers have been examined, and where necessary, inquiries have been
made. I tell you this, that you may realize this questioning is part of
our routine work."

"Yes."

"Then, I trust you will be willing to explain what is the meaning of
the message you sent to your father yesterday. It reads, 'No behold
what do on or back.' Will you translate?"

"Certainly," and Maisie gave him her sunniest smile. "I hoped to be met
at Liverpool by some friends. But they were to wireless me on board if
they would be able to meet me there. I have had no message from them
and I am a little uncertain whether to proceed on my journey alone, or
turn back to America. The word _behold_ means merely outlook, view of
the future. Translated, it means, 'I have not heard from Aunt Isabel.
I have no plan. What shall I do? Shall I go on alone, or shall I turn
back to New York?' My father understood it and replied for me to go
back home at once. If possible on the _Pinnacle_. That is all, Captain."

The Captain looked at her. Though urbanely courteous, he had never
been one easily inveigled by feminine charm, and, moreover, always had
a lurking suspicion that their charms were used oftener than not to
deceive and dissemble.

And, in man or woman, he detected at once a false note, a lack of
sincerity, with almost unerring accuracy.

And he knew Maisie Forman was not telling the truth. He knew that her
translation of the code was not the real one. What she was, he did
not know. Whether an adventuress, an anarchist, a smuggler, or what
wrong-doer she might be, he could form no opinion; but that she was
lying he was positively certain.

This conviction made him less hesitant about going on with his inquiry.

"Thank you. Now, here is a message sent the same day by Mr. Mason. I
will trouble you to listen to it. 'Behold nothing off for italy take
muff.' Do you note the use of the word behold?"

"Yes, how interesting. And does Mr. Mason use it for the same meaning
Dad and I do?"

"I don't know," the Captain suppressed his desire to shake her. "Can
you imagine what muff means?"

"I certainly cannot, but it must be code, as muffs are not usually
needed on an Italian trip."

"No. Now here's another coincidence. A letter put in the ship's mailbox
by Mr. Cox, before he died, uses the same word. See, 'Everything all
right. Muff all right. Don't worry.' Strange, isn't it?"

"It certainly is. But why, Captain, am I entertained with these
cross-word puzzles? Do you want me to decode any more of my own
messages for you?"

"No, thank you," the Captain returned, with, for him, a short manner.
"Good night, Miss Forman."

She said, "Good night, Captain," and went away and he remarked to
himself, a little forcibly, "Damn the women!"




                             CHAPTER XIII

                          MASON, THE FRIENDLY


Maisie went to her room, threw herself down on her bed and gave herself
up to the luxury of tears. She had one of those big, tumultuous,
soul-clearing crying spells which seemed to shake her all to pieces,
mentally, morally and physically.

She had lied to the Captain, the message she had decoded for him
was anything but correct. She had carried off the interview with a
brave face, but her heart was quaking. She didn't know which way to
turn. If she could only reach Liverpool without having her secrets
discovered--but, she reflected, what should she do then?

Her father had said to return home at once--but, she didn't want to go
home. This, she frankly told herself, was because of Max Trent. She
loved him, and he said he loved her--but, how could that matter go any
further, with her awful secret between them?

Trent was so adorable, with his deep eyes and that fascinating little
way he had of looking out from under his brows.

And yet--and then the tears would flood again, and Maisie cried
until she was utterly worn out and dropped off to sleep from sheer
exhaustion.

Awaking in the small hours, she saw the corner of an envelope under
her door. It proved to be a letter from Trent, and she read it with
eagerness.

  "My darling: I must write you to tell you again how I love you,
  and how I want to help you. Trust me Maisie, in every way. I
  know you are the purest, most innocent soul in the world, and
  nothing could make me believe otherwise, unless you told it to
  me yourself. But, no confession of wrong of any sort or in any
  degree could make me love you less or trust you less. I have to
  say this, for I want you to know how absolutely and entirely I
  believe in you. If there is anything wrong, anything that you
  have to account for or explain, tell me all about it and let me
  help. For our lives are henceforth inextricably bound together,
  and you can never escape me. I know something is troubling you,
  Dear Heart, and I want to share all your troubles and help you
  to overcome them. Do with me as you will. See me when you wish,
  run away from me when you choose. But know always that I am right
  here, loving you, waiting for you and ready to do your bidding
  whatever it may be. Always and forever, your own Max."

Maisie read the letter again and again.

"Oh," she breathed to herself, "that is the kind of love I have always
dreamed of. Dear Max--if only--oh, if he knew! if he knew!"

But with the precious letter clasped in her hand beneath her pillow,
she returned to sleep and only woke to find the stewardess bringing
her morning coffee.

"So you think I'm demented, Magee, do you?" she said, so cheerily that
the woman stared at her.

"Oh, Miss, if you knew how sorry I was to tell--."

"That's all right, Magee, you only did your duty. But, do you really
think I'm--er--touched?"

"Well, Miss Forman, ma'am, since you ask me right out like, I'll say
that I have noticed queer things about you that I can't account for
otherwise."

"Very well put, Magee. Let it go at that. Naturally, you couldn't
account for them otherwise. I'm not sure I can, myself."

Which speech made the stewardess more than ever firm in her conviction.
But she was so relieved that the lady took it so easily, that she
promptly dismissed the matter from her mind. A stolid sort was Magee.

Maisie concluded she would go out on deck that morning. She knew she
must face a battery of curious glances, perhaps impertinent speeches,
but she preferred to face it, rather than show fear.

So, in one of her smartest deck costumes, and with her chair-arm bag
containing books and writing portfolio, she sauntered out.

She found Trent there ahead of her, and he rose with quiet politeness
to arrange her rug and pillow for her.

"You had my note?" he whispered as he bent above her.

"Yes or I shouldn't be here," and the glance that passed between them
was that of complete understanding.

"And you can do something for me," she said, as they were both seated
and looking out on the white-caps.

"Anything."

"You may not enjoy it, but I want you to give up your chair now and
then to--," she hesitated and smiled at him, "to Lily Gibbs."

"To anyone you mention," he said with alacrity. "But why the fair Lily?"

"She thinks," and Maisie spoke seriously, "that I ought to have a
respectable female companion, and she's applying for the position."

"And a good trick," said Trent, heartily. "That's just what you do
need, and whatever else Miss Gibbs may be, she's respectable."

"Yes; so, if she comes around--or Sally Barnes either, I'd like you to
rise and stretch your wings, and flee to some other place."

"It's the same as done. And my reward will be a little quiet talk with
you alone--when--where?"

"On the upper deck--."

"In our corner?"

"Yes. About--well, just before lunch time."

"All right. And I see the Lily heaving in sight, so I'll fade."

Maisie was immeasurably grateful to Trent for the light tone with
which he carried on, for had he been too serious, she felt her tears
were still near the surface. The strain was beginning to tell on her.
Her thoughts ran wild, yet she had to preserve outward calm and even
gayety.

"Here you are!" cried Miss Gibbs, and plumped herself in Trent's vacant
chair.

"Yes, here I am," Maisie smiled at her. "And very glad to see you. I am
afraid I left you rather abruptly last night. But, to tell the truth I
was pretty much all in."

"I don't wonder, after all you had to go through. I declare, Miss
Forman, it's a shame the way you are treated."

"I'm misunderstood, that's all," Maisie looked as calm as if she hadn't
a care on earth. "And what are they saying about me this morning, Miss
Lily?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"Yes--it is amusing to hear."

"Well, they're sure now that you're mentally deranged, and they think
you ought to have a keeper--a caretaker."

"Or be put in irons, I suppose. And what is my latest lunatic
development?"

"Well, one woman told me that she heard you sent a wireless to somebody
saying you were going to Italy and wanted a muff to take with you."

"Ah, yes, she mixed up my messages with the ones that used muff as
a code word. I didn't, you know. Look here, Miss Gibbs," a sudden
thought struck Maisie, "you went with me to see the Captain last night.
I was glad to have you, I didn't want to go alone. But there was no one
else present. Now Captain Van Winkle doesn't babble, so it must have
been you who gave out the bulletins about those code messages, and the
gossipers got them all mixed up."

Lily Gibbs had the grace to look embarrassed, but that's all she did
do. She made no apology for her spreading of the news, and Maisie gave
no further sign of reproof or annoyance.

"And so you see," Miss Gibbs went on, cheerfully, "they think you're
plumb crazy, and they're feeling sorry for you."

"Sorry!" and Maisie Forman seemed to resent this rather more than if
they had censored her. "Oh, well--and what do you think about me, Miss
Lily?"

"Oh, call me Lily. Let's drop into first names, shall we? Why, I think
you're entirely sane, or I shouldn't be here at all. As I told you, I
can't stand the idea of an affected mind. It scares me."

"Thank you. And I assure you I am sane, whatever my actions may seem to
indicate. But then how do you explain my taking muffs to Italy?"

Maisie was making talk for the express purpose of impressing the
people who were passing and who gave curious if furtive glances, by
her friendship with Lily Gibbs. She knew Miss Gibbs was one of the
staunchest pillars of society as it was represented on the _Pinnacle_,
and she knew that intimacy with her would give a _cachet_ few other
conditions could bring about.

"Oh, well, in the first place you are not taking muffs to Italy. That
was in some other wireless message. And besides, I know enough of that
sort of thing to know that code words sound not only meaningless but
ridiculous."

Miss Gibbs spoke as from the wisdom of a person of great affairs and
endless secret communications.

"No, I didn't use the word muff at all, but as you say it means
something totally different. Probably it means certain papers or
valuable securities."

"Yes, like as not. But, Miss Forman, they're going to search your room
for those jewels."

This statement was flung like a bombshell purposely. Lily Gibbs wanted
to see how it would be received.

"They may," returned Maisie, most disappointingly. "I've no objection,
except that of course no one likes to have her things pawed over by
strangers. And I'm not sure they have a right. There's no question of
police--."

"No, but the Captain is the same as police or anything else, you know.
If he says search, they search."

"Who are 'they'? Who will conduct the treasure hunt?"

"I don't know; some officer, I suppose, and probably your stewardess
will be present."

"I see. It's a little inconsistent, isn't it, after they said I threw
those jewels overboard, to search my room for them? And if I didn't
steal them, they can scarcely think that the thief, after concealing
the cases in my wardrobe, would also hide the jewels in my room."

"My land, Miss Forman, you're mighty logical, I must say! Why, you
might almost be a detective yourself."

"If I were, I'd take this thing by the right handle, and find out first
of all who killed Mr. Cox. Then they might come nearer to finding
the jewel thief and the jewels. But perhaps I am also accused of the
murder?"

The sudden flush on Lily Gibbs' face proved that Maisie's suggestion
could not be entirely denied, and the girl exclaimed, angrily; "So
that's it, is it? Do you know, I'm not sure I can stand much more!"

"Oh, now--come, now, nobody thinks you killed Mr. Cox! Why, you
were--let's see, where were you at the time?"

"How do I know? I was either here in this chair or on my way to my
room for a book or on my way downstairs or at my place at the luncheon
table. Its impossible to say where one was at a given moment! I've
been questioned about this before, and that's the best I can do."

"Well, they're asking everybody, you know, and checking up by the Table
stewards as to those who were at the tables. It's all so exciting! My,
I've crossed lots of times, but nothing like this ever happened before."

"Can't we talk about something else, Miss Gibbs? If you want to
befriend me, do change the subject."

"I don't wonder you feel like that. Let's talk about clothes. Where
do you get yours? You always look so awfully well turned out. Me, no
matter what I buy or how much I pay, they never seem to be right."

But before Maisie could make a politely contradictory response, Sally
Barnes came flying up to them.

"My turn now," she declared, "hop out of that, Lily Gibbs."

A vigorous pull from two young arms brought Miss Gibbs suddenly to a
standing position, and whirling her out of the way, Sally jumped into
the vacated chair.

"Run along, Lily," she said, "you had your innings and now it's mine."
She settled herself comfortably, her long legs tucked under her, and
touched Maisie's cheek caressingly with her finger-tips.

"Angel," she said, "be glad you've got me to love you, for you're being
sized up pretty cruelly by the passenger list of this fancy old tub.
Do you know they're saying you did in old Oily Oscar?"

"Killed him?" Maisie looked her horror.

"Nothing less, Angel. And no matter how utterly absurd, how positively
ridiculous, how intensely amusing the idea may strike you and me, it's
winging its way like wildfire round the boat and I just thought I'd
drop in and tell you."

"But Sally," Maisie looked puzzled rather than indignant, "you know how
slightly I was acquainted with Mr. Cox. Why should I kill him?"

"Well, they do say," Sally was hugging her knees and rocking back and
forth as she sat sidewise on the chair and faced Maisie, "as how you
knowed him more'n you purtended."

"Ridiculous!"

"Yes'm. That's what I told 'em. And, what do you think they came back
with? They say that one day Coxie was passing you--here, you know, in
your chair--and he said he'd throw you overboard and drown you."

Maisie sat up.

"He did say that, I was talking to Mr. Trent at the time, but Mr. Cox
was merely joking."

"Of course. But the point is, that he knew you pretty well to joke with
you like that. See? Oh, Maisie, darling child, they get up all sorts
of things to say! Honestly, it's getting to be like a game--each one
tries to see what awful things can be said about you."

"But why? _why_? Sally, why do they do this to me?"

"Oh, because you antagonized them from the start--."

"I didn't mean to."

"Well, you did, anyway. Why, they wouldn't act that way to me, if I was
deemed guilty of petty larceny and murder and arson and bigamy and all
such things. They'd say, 'Come here, you naughty kid, and 'fess up.'
But with you, they say, 'Aha, so Miss High and Mighty is in for it!'
and they're glad."

"I see."

"Of course you see, and now--what are you going to do about it?"

"What can I do?"

"Well, as I told you, you could be a little more sociable--but it's too
late, I guess, for that now."

"Look here, Sally, don't talk as if I were a condemned criminal. The
opinions of a crowd of silly people don't affect me at all. Gossip
means nothing to me. I am above and beyond all such considerations. If
there is a definite accusation against me, let somebody in authority
come forward and tell me so. These rumors and hints and made up stories
are rubbish. I am afraid of nobody, I am afraid of nothing! Let them do
their worst!"

"Gee! you're some goddess! When you talk like that, you look like you
could beat the world! Say it again, and say it louder, here comes a
bunch of the worst ones!"

Maisie glanced up at the group of people passing, but waited until they
were out of earshot before she proceeded.

"No, Sally, I have no intention of justifying myself or my actions
except where justification is due. Perhaps--."

"Perhaps Scotland Yard, then! Oh, Maisie, I've _got_ to warn you. Won't
you please understand it is serious. The gossip is nothing, the chatter
is nothing, but there is an undercurrent of accusation against you--my,
I'm talking like a book! that will explode and blow you up if you don't
watch out!"

"And you advise--?"

"Why, I think you ought to have a lawyer, or somebody who can advise
you. Mr. Trent adores you, and he is a perfect duck, but you should
have a real lawyer, a smart one, who will put all these scandal mongers
in their right places, and leave you in peace."

"My peace isn't disturbed--."

"Oh, yes, it is. Your pose is magnificent, but it's only a pose. And to
think of your being advised by Silly Lily Gibbs--."

"And silly Sally Barnes--." Maisie's affectionate smile pleased the
girl.

"Yes, I am silly to think of advising you--you Queen! But, will you get
a lawyer?"

"How absurd, Sally. Whom could I get?"

"Oh, there are lots on board. I'm sure your father would want you to
have one."

"At last, Sally, you have hit on a real argument. I believe he would.
Who is a lawyer?"

"Well, there are lots. And it needn't be a regular lawyer. Any big,
wise business man would do just as well. Here comes Mr. Mason--he's a
corker. And I do believe he means to speak to you. I'll ooze."

Like a swift shadow, Sally slipped away, and Sherman Mason came up to
find Maisie looking at him with what seemed an especial interest.

"Good morning," he said. "May I sit here a moment?"

"I wish you would, Mr. Mason. I'd like to talk to you."

"Do. I am honored."

"You don't mean dishonored, do you? I am told that I am not held in
high esteem by the majority of the passengers."

Sherman Mason looked grave.

"It is not an occasion for chaff," he said, and his gray eyes looked
at her seriously. "It is not a matter for light conversation. By some
unfortunate mistake, Miss Forman, your name has become mixed up with
some unpleasant matters and as I see it, it should be checked before it
goes any further."

"Yes, I quite agree to that. Don't think I don't know about it, Mr.
Mason, for I do. But I am curious to know just what it is I'm suspected
of, and why."

"Are you in possession of the Cox jewels?"

Maisie turned on him a sudden angry glance, and then said, quickly, "I
assure you, Mr. Mason, I have no jewels in my possession except those
which are my very own."

"Thank you, I take your word for that."

"Now, I will ask a question," she said; "who killed Mr. Cox?"

"Hudder," he returned, promptly. "Who else could have done so?"

"Why, I heard you had taken Hudder into your employ?"

"Yes, I have. It's one way of finding out if I am right in my surmise,
and also the man is a good servant, and if I should be wrong, and he is
innocent, I shall be glad to retain him as a servant."

"I've just been told that I am suspected of killing Mr. Cox."

Mason laughed lightly. "That, I grant you, is something that need not
be discussed seriously. But what about these other stories? Did you
throw jewelry overboard?"

Maisie looked him straight in the eyes.

"Yes," she said.

To her amazement, Mason broke into hearty laughter.

"You are delicious!" he said. "Will you go for a walk with me? I'm sure
you've taken no exercise this morning."

"No, I haven't. Yes, I'll go."

With a certain feeling of elation at promenading the decks in company
of one of the most honored and distinguished men on the cabin list,
Maisie rose and went with him.

It was a little crowded and at Mason's suggestion they sought an upper
deck where there were fewer pedestrians.

"I'm glad to have you to myself for a time," he said, looking at her
admiringly as the brisk walk brought more color to her cheeks. "The
Treasure Hunt was not much fun after all, was it?"

"Why did you join it? I thought you detested youngsters."

"I do. I mixed up in that thing in hope of gaining you for a partner,
and by a stroke of rare good fortune I succeeded."

"Why Mr. Mason, how gallant you are, and I scarcely know you!"

By some reaction of feeling from the gloom that had enveloped her,
Maisie suddenly felt flirtatious, and the smile she gave the man beside
her was encouraging. Or so Sherman Mason chose to consider it.

"Miss Forman," he said, earnestly, "you may not know me well, but I
trust you'll let me amend that. I do know your father well, however,
and have known him for years. We have been associated in business
ventures--."

"The Apollonia Mine?" she said quickly.

"That and other affairs of even greater magnitude. He will tell you of
my life and standing. But I want to tell you of my regard for you--my
love for you. Maisie, dear child, give me the right to care for you,
to stand between you and this evil that has come upon you. Give me the
right to refute the gossip, to deny the aspersions, to proclaim you to
the world, the spotless perfect woman that you are."

Maisie stood still and turned to look at him. There was no one about
and she gazed inquiringly at the man who had spoken to her in such
impassioned tones.

"Mr. Mason," she said at last, with the merest hint of a smile, "some
of my detractors declare that I am not in my right mind. I think, I
begin to fear that dementia is becoming epidemic."

Her lovely face was almost mischievous, her dimples showed for a
fleeting instant, and Sherman Mason thought he had never seen anyone
fairer to look upon.

He lost his head.

"Maisie!" he whispered, "you are too beautiful!" And clasping her in
his arms he sought to kiss her.

"How dare you!" she cried, starting from him, her imperious eyes
blazing with anger.

"Forgive me," he said, contritely, "I've no excuse, save that I
couldn't help it. But, give me the right--oh, Maisie, you are in deep
waters, more so than I have let you know of. _I_ can help you, no one
else can. I can save you from the consequences of your rash act--."

"My rash act!"

"Yes, dear. Don't think I don't know. I do know. I know all--_all_. Do
you understand me?"

"N--no."

"I think you do, but I'll make it plainer. I know your secret--your
terrible, desperate secret. I know what happened the day you left New
York. I know your plan, your agreement as to the trip across--."

"Oh, hush!"

"No, I will not hush. I know all, I tell you, and I still want you! I
want to marry you. Who else would, if he knew--."

"Stop! I tell you! I won't have it!"

"You can't help yourself. You _must_ hear this. Marry me, promise to
marry me as soon as we can get a license, and all that, and I will free
you from every and any suspicion, from--."

"I wouldn't marry you if you were the only man on earth! I would rather
beg my bread--I would rather go to jail--I would--."

"Oh, you vixen! you beautiful vixen!" and fairly snatching her slight
form in his arms, Mason covered her face with kisses, before he let her
go.




                              CHAPTER XIV

                              THE SEARCH


"Well, now I am in a pretty mess!" said Maisie, ruefully, to herself,
as she sat down in front of her toilet mirror to restore her equanimity
and her tidiness.

"Sherman Mason in love with me, of all things! Wonder what Dad would
say to that. A steamer seems to be a wonderful place for romantic
attachments. But how much or how little shall I tell Max."

Deeply absorbed in her thoughts, she freshened her toilette and went
out again, to meet Trent, as she had promised.

He was waiting for her on the upper deck, in the place they had come to
regard as their own.

"Well, Milady," he said, "you put me out of my chair, and then you
proceeded to entertain not only Miss Gibbs and Miss Barnes, but it
seems you took up with the attention of the great Mason. Explain
yourself."

The tone was light, but there was an undercurrent of anxiety, and Trent
looked out from under his brows with a questioning air.

Maisie became serious at once.

"Max," she said, "I am told first by one and then by another, that I am
in bad and in deep waters and all that sort of thing. Now Sherman Mason
is a lawyer, and he knows my father. He seems to be a clever, capable
man--do you think I'd better--er--retain him, or whatever you call it?"

Maisie's little air of helplessness and uncertainty was so adorable
that Trent could scarcely resist his impulse to kiss the drooping red
mouth and try to bring the light back to the somber eyes.

"Dear," he said, quietly, "I don't think you need a lawyer. Why don't
you just sit tight until we reach Liverpool. Then, your people will
meet you, won't they?"

This was the first time Trent had ever asked such a question. He had
been punctiliously careful to show no curiosity regarding Maisie's
plans. She had not yet really said "yes" to his proposal, and he had no
wish to hurry her decision or trouble her in any way.

But now she was asking his advice, and he wanted to give it to the best
of his judgment.

"No, Max--I shan't be met in Liverpool by anybody."

"Then I'll look after you. Where shall you go? Straight on to London?"

"Oh, I don't know--I don't know. Father wants me to turn right round
and go back to New York--but I don't want to do that--."

"Why not, Maisie--Darling, why not?"

"Because--oh, Max, because of you!"

"You Sweetheart! Really--oh, tell me, Maisie, I'm so hungry to hear
it--do you, can you love me?"

He leaned over her chair, but she gently pushed him away, saying:

"Don't ask me, Max. I can't tell you--Oh, yes, I do love you--but--but
you wouldn't want me to, if you knew--if you knew!"

"Yes, I should, dearest. There is nothing in Heaven or earth that could
come between us if you love me. No trouble, no wrong, no crime--nothing
can possibly matter. Nothing could ever disturb my faith in you as the
one perfect woman in the whole world."

Though Trent's words were extravagant, his simple, straightforward
manner and his true, even tones carried implicit conviction, and Maisie
looked at him gratefully, but sadly.

"No, dearest," she said, "no, if you knew what I have done--what I am,
you would want only to forget me."

"Never. There is no possibility of your having done anything really
wrong, and if you had, you would still be my Maisie, my precious girl.
Just tell me, dear, that you want to be mine--."

"Oh, I do, Max. I do."

"Then you are, and you shall be. Now, dear, as you know, I ask for no
confidences. But if there is anything in which I could help you, if I
knew more of your troubles, I am ready to hear it when it suits you to
tell me."

"Max, you are the dearest thing! I can't tell you--I just can't--at
least I shall have to think it over first. You see, I don't know where
I stand--the Captain thinks all sorts of things of me--I thought Mr.
Mason could help me, could advise me--but instead, he--he--."

"He made love to you!"

"Yes, how did you know?"

"Oh, you transparent little thing, you showed it in your face! And you
looked so horrified." Trent laughed. "I say Maisie, did he kiss you?"

"Y--yes."

"Well, forget it! If you looked as disgusted about it as you do now,
I'll bet he never tries it again!"

"Oh, Max, you're such a comfort!" Maisie slipped her hand into his
under cover of the steamer rugs. "I am so--what is that word I
want--oh, yes, distraught, that's what I am, distraught."

"Well, get over your distraction as soon as you can. For after you're
through with it, I want you to begin to make plans for our wedding.
If you go straight back from Liverpool, I'll go back too, and go to
see your father, and put this thing on a proper basis. I'm only on a
pleasure trip, and there's no pleasure for me any more unless you're
within sight, at least."

"Max, I don't suppose you could hush up this whole investigation, could
you?"

"That's a pretty large order. I'm ready to do anything in the world
for you as far as my own efforts go, but I doubt if I could move the
Captain of the _Pinnacle_ to cut short his investigations regarding a
crime committed on his ship."

"No, I suppose not. Mr. Mason says Hudder killed Oscar Cox."

"Maybe he did--but I don't think so."

"Who do you think did it?"

"That's where I'm utterly at sea. My detective instinct collapsed like
a pricked balloon as soon as I tried to adapt it to practical work.
At one time I had a fancy for Camper as the criminal, but I doubt it.
I rather think it was a dark horse--I mean somebody of whom we have
never thought. Someone who knew Cox, and had a motive of which we know
nothing. Just think, there must be fully a hundred men on the First
Cabin list, of whom we know just about nothing at all. Any one of
these could have been Cox's deadly enemy, any one could have picked up
that bronze hand from Cox's stateroom, as he passed it--nobody locks
a door--and could have banged the poor man through that window, and
then gone on down to his luncheon, without rousing the curiosity or
attention of anybody. The thing was too easy. There's no use checking
up time and all that. There is more than a half hour in which the thing
could have been done--must have been done. Now, on the face of things,
it is far more probable that some First Cabin passenger did all that,
than to suppose somebody from a lower cabin or some steward could have
come up unnoticed. So, I say that some unknown enemy of Cox's just
watched his opportunity and did for him cleverly and with small chance
of detection."

"Yes, I daresay that was the way of it," and Maisie nodded
thoughtfully. "Well, then, I suppose the truth never will be known."

"Perhaps not. But the greater danger is, that they will fasten the
crime on the wrong person."

"Yes, they're trying to fasten it on me."

"Don't say such awful things, dearest. As you know, all sorts of gossip
is about, and those cats of women revel in making sensational speeches.
Don't listen to them."

"Oh, here you are, Maisie," and Sally Barnes came round the corner to
where they sat. "Sorry, but I'll have to ask you to come with me for a
few minutes."

"Whether I want to or not?" asked Maisie, smiling at her.

"Yes, my child, whether you want to or not."

But Sally did not smile. Trent thought he had never seen her look so
solemn.

Maisie rose and the two girls went off together.

"Come to your room," Sally said, still with that strange quiet, that
queer soberness.

Maisie went, wondering, but her heart sank. What was going to happen
now?

In her room she found Lily Gibbs, and she, too, looked as if she were
ready to cry.

"What's it all about?" Maisie asked, with a fine show of bravery.

"You tell her, Sally," said Miss Gibbs.

"All right," and Sally took her courage by the throat. "It's just
this, Maisie. The Captain is getting funny, and he wants--he wants
you--er--searched for those confounded jewels--."

"I won't be searched!" and, her eyes blazing with anger, Maisie faced
her two embarrassed visitors.

"Listen, dear," Sally said. "It's only a form, of course, but it
would be better for you just to stand for it, and have it over.
Because--because, Maisie, if you don't let us--search you, the Captain
is going to send two stewardesses--."

Maisie had fallen limply into a chair, and stared with baffled,
despairing eyes.

"I won't!" she said, "I won't! He can't make me--."

"Yes, he can, Maisie. He can enforce any order he chooses to give. And
dear, forget the--the indignity--for it won't really be any indignity
if Lily and I do it. If you knew what a time I had to persuade old Van
Winkle to let us come instead of some horrid stewardess woman--."

"Listen, dear," Lily Gibbs said, gently. "The Captain put it this way.
They're trying every way possible to find those jewels. They have
searched this stateroom, and they feel that they must know for sure
that you haven't them on you, and then they can search other people's
state-rooms."

"Whose?"

"I don't know, but if you just let us put this matter through, you'll
be out of it and they can go ahead as they choose. Why, it's nothing.
Of course you have an under pocket or a jewel bag around your neck or
something where you carry your pearls and your keys and all that. We
all have. I have a suede pocket on a belt that I buckle round my waist.
Awful nuisance, but I don't feel safe travelling without it. Come, now,
it's only a farce, but we must make our report. Show us how you carry
your pearls and your other jewelry."

"Here it is, now!" and Sally's sharp eyes caught sight of a silk cord
round Maisie's neck.

Half laughing, half crying, she pulled at it, and Maisie sat
motionless, Sally drew forth a bag of gray chamois skin, that fastened
with snaps.

"Here we are," Lily Gibbs cried, gayly, "I'll just peep into this, and
then the show's over."

She undid the snappers, and out into her lap tumbled the pearl necklace
with the square diamond clasp, also a square buckle of beautiful
stones. Also three exquisitely lovely diamond bracelets, of the
slender, bangle design so much in fashion.

There was nothing else in the bag.

A silence fell on the group.

Then Lily Gibbs spoke:

"Sally, we found nothing. See? We found nothing at all."

She replaced the jewels in the bag and handed it back to Maisie, who
took it without a word. She seemed incapable of speech, and stared
vacantly, as one who is hypnotized.

"I understand," said Sally, heavily. "I understand, Lily. We found
nothing at all."

"Pull yourself together, Sally," said the older woman. "You can't face
the Captain looking like that. You stay here, I'll go to the Captain
alone."

"No--no," Sally seemed almost frightened, "I can't stay here--," she
looked at Maisie, who still sat, her face devoid of expression, and
holding the bag of jewels in her hand.

Then Maisie raised her eyes and looked at the two women.

Lily Gibbs said afterward she had never seen such a look. It blended
reproach and forgiveness, it showed fear and relief, it seemed to
express utter despair and indomitable courage, yet back of it all there
was a mystery, a baffling something that could not be understood or
translated.

"Can you--," Maisie said, eagerly, "can you tell the Captain--."

"No, they cannot!" came a stern voice, and from the tall wardrobe there
stepped the menacing figure of Magee, Maisie's stewardess.

"I sensed what you women would be up to, I knew you'd try to shield
this thief, and I took my precautions."

"I see you did," said Maisie, coldly. "Will you please leave this room
and never enter it again so long as I am here. As to the knowledge you
have gained by your eavesdropping, do with it what you will. But go!"

She rose, opened the door, and pointed with such inexorable command,
that the stewardess was cowed and went away at once.

"You two," Maisie sighed and brushed her hand wearily across her
forehead, "have only done your duty. And you have been kind. It was
good of you to come yourselves instead of letting them send horrid
servants. I appreciate it and I am grateful. Now, of course, you cannot
suppress the information you have gained, you must report truly to the
Captain. Please go away now, I want to think out some things. I shall
be right here, when anybody wants me. I hope they will let me have a
different stewardess. I never did like Magee."

Dazed at the turn affairs had taken, stunned at the discovery of the
jewels, and utterly amazed at Maisie's attitude, changing so suddenly
from almost a stupor to alert self-command, the two ambassadors of
Captain Van Winkle went slowly away.

They scurried to Lily Gibbs' stateroom, where they locked themselves
in, and then sat down and stared at each other.

"Do you know," said Sally, slowly, "somehow, I still believe in Maisie.
I can't help it."

"Believe in her! What do you mean? Didn't she have the Cox jewels,
hidden on her? Aren't they the ones, beyond all doubt that were in
those cases that were in her wardrobe? What do you mean, believe in
her?"

"I don't know, Lily, but I think there is--there must be, some
explanation. Maybe she had jewels just like those that are missing, and
so didn't want to show them up.

"Yes, maybe she had five pieces, exactly like the ones Cox had! And
maybe they were in five cases exactly like Cox's cases--."

"What do you know about Cox's cases? Why shouldn't Maisie Forman have
bracelets and a buckle as well as anybody else?"

"Oh, Sally, dear, don't be absurd! If she had, why hasn't she worn
them? She wore her pearls, why not a bracelet or two--."

"That's just it, Lily. She did wear the pearls--."

"But they're not so conspicuous--so especial, you know--."

"Look here, what is it that you suspect Maisie of, exactly. Of stealing
those jewels from Mr. Cox?"

"What else can we think? You see, Sally, you're young and innocent.
I mean you don't know half the wickedness there is in this world.
Why, there are lots of women who look and act and seem as classy and
high-toned as Maisie Forman, who are professional jewel thieves or
adventuresses of some sort."

"I don't believe she is, anyway," Sally's tearful face was belligerent.
"She's too sweet and dear for that sort of thing."

"Well, all right," Lily didn't press the point, "what do you think,
then?"

"Just what I said, that she happened to have jewelry like Mr. Cox's
bills. Why, the bracelets on his bills may have been very different
from her bracelets."

"Yes--but it's the coincidence of the three bracelets and the buckle
and the pearls with the square diamond clasp. Did you ever see another
string of pearls with that kind of clasp?"

"N--no. But it's the newest style, there must be lots of them."

"Oh, well, as I said, it's the coincidence. And Miss Forman had no
other jewelry at all."

"Then she can't be much of a jewel thief! Why doesn't she have more
loot?"

"Sally, you are impossible! But it's nice of you to stand up for her.
Now, what are we to do?"

"Oh, I don't know. I simply can't go to the Captain with this story.
You go alone, will you, Lily?"

"Why, yes. You know I had an insane idea of hushing it up and not
telling what we found. But it wouldn't have done, anyway, and, too, now
that that stewardess heard and saw the whole scene, we have to tell."

"Yes. Well, you do the telling. My, I feel as if I'd been to an
execution or something! I think I'll go and collect Puppy and make him
play something with me."

"Yes, do and I'll see the Captain by myself."

Miss Gibbs was sorry indeed for Maisie Forman, but far more were her
interests centered in herself and her doings. The visit to the Captain
and the story she had to tell him seemed so exciting and important,
that she could scarcely wait to get to him.

Full of her mission, she went to the Captain's room, and was at once
admitted.

She found there Pollard Nash and Frederick Stanhope, who were in
conference with the Captain.

"Shall I speak before these gentlemen?" Miss Gibbs inquired, and the
reply was affirmative.

"Well, then," she made the most of her dramatic opportunity, "we found
the Cox jewels in a bag hung around Miss Forman's neck, under her
blouse."

Three pairs of startled eyes looked at her.

"Yes," Miss Gibbs proceeded, thoroughly enjoying herself, "Miss Forman
was exceedingly averse to being searched. She was just bound we
shouldn't do it. But of course, we had to. So, as I say, we found the
little chamois bag, and in it, the five pieces which you have often
described as the Cox jewels."

"Where are they?" asked Nash.

"Oh, we left them with her. You didn't tell us to confiscate them, you
know, Captain. Besides, she can't get away."

"She can throw them overboard," said Nash.

"Why should she? There'd be no sense in that. They say she did throw
some jewelry overboard, but I don't believe it. At least, I don't
believe it was anything of value. But, what do you make of it all,
Captain Van Winkle?"

"I don't know what to make of it, Miss Gibbs. I think we are forced to
the conclusion that Miss Forman, is--well, is a person to be watched,
and I may add, to be questioned."

"Yes," agreed Stanhope, "very much to be questioned. I'd like to be
present when you question her, Captain, if you don't mind."

"Certainly, certainly, sir. But the interview must wait until this
afternoon. I am very busy for the rest of the morning. It's already
noon."

So his visitors, construing this as a dismissal, went away.

Nash and Lily Gibbs went off for a confab, in which after declaring
their surprise and consternation at the state of things, they continued
to discuss and argue round and round in circles until they returned to
their original proposition that it was all a most inexplicable mystery.

Stanhope went to look for the stewardess who had witnessed the "search."

He found her with little trouble, and though reserved and taciturn, he
found an efficacious means of making her talk.

Like most of her tribe she was amenable to a financial consideration
and like many of them, when she was once started she seemed to find it
easier to go on than to stop.

"Yes, sir," she said, "from the very first, I thought Miss Forman was a
queer one. She'd mope and sit for a long time thinking and looking like
she was just going to cry. Then, all of a sudden, she'd jump up and
dress herself all up to kill and go flaunting down to dinner or out on
deck, as gay as you please."

"Did she have many visitors in her stateroom?"

"Never a one, sir. None of the ladies seemed to care for her much--or
she didn't care for them--I don't know which. Oh, she's a high-strung
one, she is. A lady born, as far as manners and all that goes. Kind to
me, but in an aristocratic way, you see. Not haughty, not dictatorial,
but quiet-spoken, yet positive. What she wanted done must be done the
way she directed. And as for me, I was willing enough to do all I could
to please her, until--until she began to act queer."

"And when was that?"

"After the gentleman died--Mr. Cox, you know, sir."

"Yes. Did Miss Forman know Mr. Cox?"

"Well, sir, that I don't know. But this I do know. She went to Mr.
Cox's room late one night. Whether he was there and she went to see
him, or whether he was not there and that was when she stole the
jewels, I can't say. But I can swear I saw her come out of his room,
and close the door behind her, and go to her own room about midnight.
That I can swear to."

"What night was this?" Stanhope could see the woman was speaking the
truth.

"That was Monday night, sir. We sailed Saturday, you know."

"Yes." Stanhope was thinking. If the theft was the work of a
professional jewel thief, she had done her task early in the game.

"Well, tell me more about Miss Forman--about her queerness, I mean."

"Then, the next night, Tuesday night, she tried to drown herself. Tried
to jump overboard."

"Who saved her?"

"That Mr. Trent--he's her beau now."

"Naturally! Well, don't you think she knew he would catch her in time?"

"I daresay, sir. Well, then, next, she threw some jewelry overboard.

"Yes, that's what I want to know about. What sort of jewelry?"

"That I don't know. I only saw something that sparkled like gold in the
sunlight."

"When was that?"

"That was Wednesday night."

"You said the sun was shining."

"Yes sir, just setting. It would be about seven o'clock, sir."

"You seem to have these dates and hours down pretty fine."

"Yes sir. I can't forget 'em, sir."

"So it seems. Thank you, Magee, I'll see you again sometime."




                              CHAPTER XV

                           THE ANNOUNCEMENT


Maisie had her luncheon served in her cabin.

She thought deeply while she was eating it, and when the waiter came in
for the tray, she was serene and smiling.

She made a careful toilette, and put on a new frock that she hadn't
before worn on board. It was a smart, rather daring affair of white,
faced here and there with orange, and a white steamer coat and hat,
with an orange scarf completed the costume.

She wore no jewelry of any sort, not even a ring, and no string of
dangling beads or trumpery chains.

She went out to her own deck chair, confident that Trent would be
sitting in his adjoining chair awaiting her.

He was, and as he sprang to his feet at sight of her, she smiled
dazzlingly and said, "Did you miss me from the dining room?"

"Yes, indeed. It's always sunshine where you are, and darkness where
you're not."

"How pretty!" and Maisie gave him a look of real affection that told
him her lightness of tone was for the benefit of the passers-by.

As always after luncheon, the throngs swept by on their eternal rounds
of the deck constitutional.

Nearly every one of them glanced curiously at Maisie, and after Trent
had tucked up her rug, and she was ensconced in her chair as on a
throne, she returned glance for glance. Not rudely, not starting, but
showing apparently the same lively interest in them that they showed in
her.

Trent watched her with satisfaction. He had implicit and unshakable
faith in her, in every way. He believed that no wrong, no evil of
any sort that might be mixed up in her life was of her own making or
brought about by her own hand or mind.

Trent's creed was simple. It was of the "trust me not at all, or all
in all" variety. So far, he trusted Maisie all in all. Should the time
come when he must revise his opinion of her--well, that condition
should be met when it arose.

But as he looked at the pure, sweet face, the straightforward, honest
eyes, he could see no evil, hear no evil, think no evil of that queen
of his heart. His deepest regret was his inability to help her. If he
knew more, he felt sure he could do more. But the vague plans that came
into his mind, he dared not attempt, lest he harm her cause in his
well-meant efforts to assist it.

Without seeming to ask for more confidences than she had already
vouchsafed, he told her this.

"I know it, dear," she said, the chattering crowds and the dash of the
spray making their low-voiced conversation unheard to others. "I know
exactly what a difficult position I've placed you in. But I am in a
quandary. And it's a sea of doubt which I must swim out of myself--or,
sink. No one can help me--you, least of all! If I didn't care so much
for you, I would just tell you all, and throw the whole burden on your
big, strong shoulders--."

Maisie's face was wistful, her sad little smile was appealing, and
Trent's self-control nearly gave way. As usual, he sought refuge in
lightness.

"You are mysterious, My Queen," he said, smiling. "Yet I love your
mysteries better than other people's disclosures. Tell me more of them."

"Then here's a deep one. I shall probably be arraigned, and soon, at a
court of justice, to be accused of--of dire misdeeds."

Maisie's smile was at variance with her words, it was almost roguish,
and, sensitive to every play of light in her eyes, every quiver of her
sensitive lips, Trent took heart from her tone, and said eagerly:

"I may go with you?"

"I don't see why not. Ah, here comes my little friend. Hello
Sally--good afternoon, Mr. Abercrombie. Any more Treasure Hunts on the
carpet?"

"No, Miss Forman," and the boy smiled at her. "We're going to have
tableaux tonight, will you take part?"

"Can't keep still long enough. But we'll be in the audience, Mr. Trent
and I, and we'll promise to applaud the ones you want us to."

"Oh, do be in then, Maisie," Sally cried, almost forgetting in the
presence of this radiant being the angry, scornful person she had so
lately "searched."

"What could I be?" Maisie dallied with the idea.

"Oh, you can be Le Brun's 'Girl with the Muff.' You look exactly like
that! I never thought of it before, but you do! Doesn't she, Pup?
Doesn't she, Mr. Trent?"

The mention of the word muff brought a look of startled agony to
Maisie's face, but only for a moment, and no one but Trent saw it. Nor
did he know the reason for it.

Then laughingly, Maisie rolled up a corner of her rug, held it up to
her face, and tilting her head sidewise, was such a perfect imitation
of the picture in question, that they all exclaimed in surprise and
admiration.

"Oh, perfect! Top hole!" screamed Sally. "You can fix up a costume out
of a scarf or something, and I know where I can get the very right hat!
Oh, will you, Maisie, will you?"

Passers-by now paused to see what the excitement was all about, and the
Campers, coming along, stopped in front of Maisie's chair and smiled
with the appearance of friendliness. The friendliness, however, was
only in appearance and veiled an intense curiosity.

"What, Miss Forman, are you thinking of going into the Tableaux?" and
Amy Camper's shrilled voice carried a disagreeable note.

Maisie did not think of doing anything of the sort, but the unpleasant
speech so irritated her that she felt impelled to retaliate.

"Why, I don't know," she said, sweetly, "are you? Let's strike a
bargain I'll go into them, if you will, Mrs. Camper. How's that?"

Now Mrs. Camper hadn't been asked, and Maisie, though she didn't know,
was pretty sure she hadn't. Amy Camper's pettish little face was
not the sort most sought for the purposes of Living Pictures, while
Maisie's expressive beauty was just what was desired.

"Oh, I shouldn't dream of it!" Mrs. Camper returned, "It's so--so
public, don't you know. But you don't object to publicity?"

"No," said Maisie, quietly, "I like it."

With the merest hint of a nod of dismissal, Maisie turned to Trent,
saying, "But as to that other matter--."

"Yes," said Trent, taking his cue instantly, "yes, I tell you it's the
chance of a lifetime! Why a man I know got rich over night just by the
investment of a small sum in it. It's a wonderful invention!"

"And it runs by electricity?" Maisie went on, suppressing her
inclination to laugh at the Campers' tardy departure.

At last they went on along the deck, and Maisie gave way to her
amusement.

"You're a brick, to pick up the chatter so beautifully! I hope I
snubbed that fearful woman?"

"It was a gentle little snub, dear, and I doubt if it penetrated her
thick intelligence as such, but at least they did get away."

"Hello, girlie, here's me!" and this time it was Lily Gibbs who bore
down upon them. Trent sprang up to give her his chair, which Miss Gibbs
took with an air of proprietorship. So Trent sat down on the footrest
of Maisie's chair, and in a few minutes, Nash and Mallory, coming
along, joined the group.

Sally and her wild horde ran back and forth, and the place became the
center of interest.

Whatever the people of the group that gathered round Maisie knew or
surmised concerning her, they were one and all frankly under the spell
of her charm.

The girl scintillated with wit and gayety, she bubbled over with mirth
and fun. She was gracious, cordial, whimsical and altogether enchanting.

Trent fell more deeply in love with her than ever, and Nash and Mallory
looked at one another and shook their heads in negation of a girl like
that being in any way a wrong-doer.

Lily Gibbs, seemingly forgetting the jewel episode, assumed an air of
proprietorship in Maisie that would have been funny, but Maisie herself
encouraged it, and with one hand on Lily's, continually turned to her
for corroboration or approval of her chaff.

She paid no especial attention to Trent. Now and then she spoke
laughingly to him, but for the most part her talk was a general
bantering of Sally's crowd and the group in general.

Others, even strangers were attracted, and stood along the rail,
listening.

Not that Maisie made herself at all conspicuous, on the contrary, her
efforts were toward the drawing out of the others by her sallies and
repartee.

Sherman Mason, strolling by, paused, and almost at the same moment
Stanhope came along, and the two men met and smiled in unison, as
Sally's shrieking laugh rang out.

"Fascinating little piece!" said Stanhope, and Mason returned:

"The Barnes baby? Yes, but I see no charm in flappers."

"Oh, they have a freshness--."

"You said it!" laughed Mason. "They have a freshness, and that's just
what I object to."

"At least, it's a defect that time will remedy," said Stanhope, good
naturedly. "I say, Mr. Mason, you've taken that man, Hudder into your
service. Did it ever strike you that he may have been the Man in the
Library?"

"I have thought of that, Mr. Stanhope, and, in fact, that's one reason
I took him on. Also the fact that he's a mighty good servant. Cox had
him trained perfectly."

"And have you discovered anything--er--suspicious?"

"Well, I haven't had him twenty-four hours yet, so one can't expect
much. But as a matter of fact, he seems to me, faithful, doggedly--I
guess I mean doggishly so--like a dumb animal, you know."

Mason was floundering a little, for which there seemed to be no reason
unless it was that Stanhope looked at him so intently.

"Yes, he is almost dumb," Mason went on. "He says next to nothing, and
when I tried, as I thought adroitly, to quiz him a little about his
late master, he--he shut up like a clam."

"Ah, a combination of the clam and the dog nature must combine to make
a valuable servant. Where is the Bronze Hand now?"

"Heavens, I don't know!" and Mason looked as if the question amazed
him. "I suppose the Captain has it, or has it in custody. That's the
weapon, isn't it? It must be given to the Scotland Yard people, mustn't
it?"

"Are they going to put it all up to the Yard?"

"I believe so, as soon as we arrive in Liverpool."

"Good business. It ought to be put in charge of the most competent
hands. To my mind it is the most inexplicable murder I ever heard of!
What do you say?"

"All murders are inexplicable to me."

"Do you mean their solution, or that the mere fact of murder is to you
inconceivable?"

"Both," and Sherman Mason gave a wry smile. "I say, Mr. Stanhope, you
seem a bit of a detective. Do you think the murder--the Cox murder,
could by any possibility have been done by a woman?"

"So far as the physical force necessary is concerned, I should say yes.
Women, girls even, today, are often as muscular and forceful as man.
They, of course, have less main strength, but to use that Bronze Hand
as it was used could easily have been the act of a woman. Moreover, the
diabolical cruelty of the mind that conceived that mode of killing, the
cold brutality of the nature that could carry out the design, might be
found in the female of the species, said, you know, to be more deadly
than the male."

"Yes--yet it seems impossible for a woman--."

"The elemental passions know no sex. That murder was not only the
result of a fierce fury, an implacable hate, but it was planned by a
cool head and carried out with a steady hand."

"Yes, a hand of bronze!"

Stanhope did not smile at the grewsome jest, but went on.

"That's why I hesitate to deduce a feminine will back of it. It seems
to me a woman could do all that, could claw her victim with that awful
instrument in the heat of passion or outraged feelings, but I can't
see her planning it ahead, watching her chance and then striking so
coolly--."

"How do you know the stroke was made coolly?"

"Because it hit so true--you know I've examined the dead man, and I
could distinguish the marks of the two blows--there were two blows,
clawing, dragging blows--."

"Oh, hush! How can you rehearse such fearful details!" Mason put a
hand over his eyes for a moment, as if to shut out the awful picture
Stanhope conjured up.

"Forgive me, Mason. I didn't realize how graphic I was."

"Oh, that's all right, I'm not squeamish, only it was a terrible thing!"

And then Stanhope's quick eye caught sight of an unobtrusive messenger
who came and spoke a word or two to Miss Forman.

"Certainly," she said, with what seemed to him like a little sigh of
relief.

She rose, and nodded invitingly to Trent, who went along with her.

Without a word, Stanhope followed.

"Miss Forman," he said, as he caught up with her, "you're going to see
the Captain?"

"Yes," she said, speaking coldly, but smiling more amiably as she
noticed his pleasant, kindly expression and earnest gaze.

"May I go with you? I may be of real assistance to you?"

His low, deep tones sounded a note of sincerity and hope, and the girl
quickly responded to it.

"I should be glad to have you, Mr. Stanhope," she said. "It is perhaps
a--a--sort of crisis."

"Yes," he said, understandingly, and dropping behind them, he followed
her and Trent to the room appointed.

Captain Van Winkle looked a little surprised as he saw Maisie enter
with the two men.

"I had expected you alone, Miss Forman," he said, gravely.

"I know, Captain, but do you mind if I bring these two friends?"

"Not at all, if you don't object to their hearing what I have to say."

"No, I don't object," and Maisie, looking charmingly carefree and
light-hearted, seated herself in the chair the Captain held for her.

Indeed, so serene and pleasant was her attitude that the Captain felt
suddenly a great distaste for the ordeal before him.

But he never flinched from a duty, and he plunged at once into the
subject.

"I'm sorry, Miss Forman," he said, with real regret in his tones, "but
I have to ask you some questions."

"Of course you have, Captain, go right ahead. I'm here to answer them."

The three men looked at her.

Captain Van Winkle, with real relief that she was taking it thus
lightly instead of being sulky, or worse, tearful.

Stanhope, with an intense interest to hear the coming conversation, and
full of earnest hope that he might be able to help this beautiful girl
out of whatever meshes of circumstance might yet involve her.

Trent, with ever growing love and trust, with steadfast loyalty, with
no doubts of his Maisie, but with a wary eye out for any danger that
might assail her, and a ready will to do anything in his power to aid
her, should such a chance be given him.

"You see, Miss Forman, we are trying to find a number of pieces of
valuable jewelry that we have reason to believe were stolen from the
effects of Mr. Oscar Cox, either before or after his untimely death."

"Yes," said Maisie, and the word was absolutely without inflection of
any sort.

But it seemed to be a gracious permission to proceed, and the Captain,
detesting his task more and more, floundered on.

"And we--we had reason--or thought we had, to suspect--that is, to
think they might be in your possession. And," he rushed it through now,
"and so, we asked two ladies to--er--investigate. And they said--."

"Yes?"

This time the inflection was slightly interrogatory.

"They said you had the jewels--."

"Why did they think they were the Cox jewels that they had found in my
possession?"

"Because there were five pieces, which corresponded exactly with the
jewels listed on Mr. Cox's bills. These pieces of jewelry were not
found in his effects, and we feel justified in assuming that they are
the pieces you have. Can you assure me they are not?"

"I can most certainly assure you, Captain Van Winkle, on my honor,
that I have no jewelry in my possession at this moment that is not
absolutely and unquestionably my own property."

"Then you've thrown it overboard."

"I have thrown overboard no bit or piece of property that was not my
very own."

"You were seen to fling far out to sea something that sparkled like
gold."

"Yes."

"Was it gold?"

"Captain Van Winkle have you a right to ask me these questions?"

Maisie did not seem embarrassed, so much as perplexed. She asked her
question straightforwardly and the Captain answered as directly.

"Yes, Miss Forman, I have. It is not at all an easy thing for me to do,
to quiz you thus, but I have the right, and moreover, it is my duty. So
I ask you to explain why you would throw away valuable jewelry?"

"It wasn't of great value," she spoke a bit reminiscently, "it was
only a ring, and not a very expensive ring at that. I threw it away
because I didn't want it. In fact, I never liked it!" This last bit of
information came with a sort of burst of confidence and was accompanied
by an irradiating smile, that showed a trace of mischievousness, almost
as if a naughty child had been caught in an act of disobedience or
mutiny.

"And that was all you threw overboard? We are not interested in a ring.
There is no ring in question."

"Yes, that's all I threw overboard, Captain."

"How well did you know Mr. Cox?"

"He was introduced to me after I came on board the _Pinnacle_."

"He admired you?"

Maisie stared at him.

"If he did he didn't say so. I saw him to speak to only a few times,
and then he was most formal and conventional in his conversation."

"Yet I am told he threatened, jestingly, to throw you overboard."

"Throwing things overboard seems to be a habit on this boat. But I
suppose no more so than on others. I never look over the rail, but I
have the impulse to pitch something in!"

Stanhope chuckled to himself. He was enjoying this conversation,
and rather pleased at the girl's attitude. It seemed to him she was
sparring for time, and yet, he wondered, what help would delay give
her? Also, he thought, if he were in the Captain's place he would bring
that inquiry to a head with a few sudden turns and find out where
things really stood.

Trent, still watchful of the course of events, still mutely adoring his
goddess, sat silently by, contented to remain in the dark as long as
Maisie chose to keep him there.

The Captain sighed and began again. The poor man was out of his element
but he had to carry on, and he struggled afresh with his waning
courage.

"What I mean is, Miss Forman, that a man wouldn't jestingly threaten to
throw a lady overboard, unless he was pretty well acquainted with the
lady. It is not a joke a stranger would make."

"Isn't it, Captain?"

"No; that is, it doesn't seem so to me. Therefore, I am assuming that
you knew Mr. Cox better than you have given me reason to suppose."

"Well, I can tell you frankly that I didn't think I knew him well
enough to have him speak to me in that jesting way. I certainly did
not. But as he did speak so, as he did say that very thing, I simply
assumed that his idea of joking with a lady and mine differed, and
I let it go at that. You must see that I couldn't openly resent the
speech. That would have seemed to attach too much importance to it,
and I didn't really consider it important at all. In fact, I promptly
forgot it. But I didn't see Mr. Cox again, to speak to--at least, I
don't think I did."

"Not when you visited him in his stateroom?"

"You have been told that I did that?"

"Yes, do you deny it?"

"I neither deny or admit it. But I do deny your right to ask me about
it. I think, as you say, you have certain rights in this inquiry, but
I claim that question is outside your right. What is your opinion Mr.
Stanhope?"

It was the first time Maisie had spoken to anyone except the Captain,
but Stanhope's attention was so earnest, his expression so eager, that
Maisie wanted him to speak.

"I think, Miss Forman, that Captain Van Winkle is entirely within his
rights in asking you anything that bears on the subject of Mr. Cox, his
affairs or his death, and if I may advise you, it is to be utterly and
entirely frank."

Then Maisie Forman turned white--not only pale, but a chalky, deathly
white, that made Max Trent fear she was going to faint. But she did
not. She gripped the arms of the chair she sat in, and said, in a very
low voice, "Go on, Captain."

The Captain was shrewd enough to press this advantage.

"Where are the jewels?" he said, abruptly.

"Here they are," said Maisie Forman, and drawing a small jewel bag from
the handbag she carried, she poured forth upon the table a string of
pearls with a square diamond clasp, a shoulder buckle set with precious
stones, and three diamond bangle bracelets.

"Those are the Cox jewels?" said the Captain, his voice a bit unsteady.

"They are mine."

"You--you--took them from Mr. Cox--."

"I did not. He gave them to me."

"He gave them to you--why did he give you such a gift?"

"Because--," Maisie's beautiful eyes fell at last, and her voice was a
mere whisper as she said:

"Because I was--his wife."




                              CHAPTER XVI

                          ENTER FLEMING STONE


To say Maisie's hearers were thunderstruck at her words, would be
putting it very mildly.

Captain Van Winkle looked utterly blank and stared at her with a vacant
gaze as if she had spoken in a language not know to him.

Stanhope stared, too, but his face showed not only intelligent
understanding of her words, but his alert eyes and quick play of
expression showed his thoughts were racing and he was weighing the
meaning and consequences of what the girl had just disclosed.

As for Trent, he was almost comical in his bewilderment. Perhaps of
all the astounding things Maisie could have said, this was the most
bewildering and incredible.

Maisie, Cox's wife! Impossible! It just simply couldn't be!

Then as Trent looked at her, and saw her sweet mouth droop and noted
the misery in her eyes, he realized that at last his time had come to
help, or at least to stand by.

He moved his chair nearer to hers, and taking her hand in his, said
clearly and distinctly:

"This lady is my _fiancée_, and whatever is to be said to her, must be
said in my presence."

This gave Captain Van Winkle another shock, and he struggled hard to
keep his poise.

Then Stanhope intervened.

"We have reached a crisis," he said, slowly, "and since revelations
seem to be in order, I think it is time for me to make one. My name
is not Stanhope, I am using that alias for reasons of my own. But I
am Fleming Stone, the detective, and I offer you my services, Captain
Van Winkle, trusting you may be able to make use of them. I have been
exceedingly interested in the Cox affair from the start, and, though I
have kept quiet in the matter, I think I know all the details that have
been brought to light."

Captain Van Winkle turned to the speaker as a drowning man to a
lifeboat.

"Are you really Fleming Stone? Oh, sir, I am glad indeed to have your
help. I know nothing of detective work. This murder is too great, too
terrible for amateur sleuths to take care of. I so longed for a real,
an experienced detective, and now you are here! Please, Mr. Stone, if
you will, take the case in hand, do whatever you choose, use your own
methods, but oh, I hope you can apprehend the murderer, or at least get
some definite evidence before we land at Liverpool."

"We're due Sunday morning," Stone ruminated, "and it's Friday now.
Something less than forty-eight hours. But if I can solve the mystery
at all, I can do it in that time. At any rate, the murderer is on
board, and two days ought to give me time to smoke him out."

"And now, Miss Forman--er--Mrs. Cox," the Captain said, still
looking bemused and bewildered, "have you anything to add to your
statement--your rather surprising statement?"

"Yes," Maisie said, quietly, "I have. I should like to tell you men,
briefly, the circumstances that led to my sailing under the name of
Miss Forman."

"We should be glad to hear anything you care to tell us," the Captain
said, having regained his manners if not his mental balance.

But if truth were told the other two listeners were even more eager to
hear the girl's story, and Trent, looking like a man who was keying
his nerve up to highest pitch, forced himself to sit quietly and await
calmly the coming revelation.

Fleming Stone, his dark, deep-set eyes somber with the gravity of the
occasion, watched Maisie, without seeming to do so, and waited for her
to speak.

"Without going into all the details," she said, "and without mentioning
names, unless necessary, I will tell you that my father, one of the
most upright and honorable men in the world, was made the tool and the
cat's-paw of a company of shrewd and unscrupulous swindlers. Perhaps
swindlers is too strong a word, but that is what it amounted to. I
can't tell you the particulars, for I don't know enough about business
and all that. But it was the Apollonia Mine, and it was a fake. They
were what you call, I think, crooked promoters, and they inveigled my
father into the thing, because he had some knowledge of mines and ores
that they wished to use. Well, anyway, they hoodwinked him and deceived
him into thinking the company was all right and honest and all that,
and when he discovered they were all wrong, he declared he would show
them up.

"I can't tell you exactly what happened, but they had so fixed things
that my father would be arrested and put in prison for life, if he
exposed them. They had fixed everything so that Dad was the scapegoat,
and the whole blame would rest on his innocent shoulders. He tried
every way to arrange things so that they should bear their own share
of the blame, he was willing enough to take his own share, which was
nothing compared to the terrible schemes of those villains. But he
couldn't get at them, legally, and when he tried, they said they would
jail him anyway, for he was too dangerous to be at large, knowing what
he did. All these things you men can verify, by asking the lawyers.
I can't tell this part of the story as it should be told. But here's
where I come in. Oscar Cox was one of the principal men in the company,
and he was the worst enemy father had. If Cox would agree not to make
trouble for Dad, the others would do as he said.

"And so," here Maisie blushed and looked a little embarrassed, "Mr.
Cox happened to take a fancy to me--and he told father that if--if
I would marry him, there would be no further mention of Dad's name
with the scandal of the mine business. But if I would not, then he
would break my father. That's the word he used, and he meant it in its
widest, fullest sense. He meant to ruin my father utterly, blast his
reputation, take away all his property and land him in prison for a
long term, if not for life. I can't tell you of all the plans he had
made and traps he had laid, but everything was ready to fall on father
and crush him utterly--unless--unless I married Oscar Cox."

"You poor darling," Trent murmured, holding Maisie's hand more closely,
as he looked at her with troubled eyes.

"I had no choice," the girl said, simply. "I would have married anybody
on earth, rather than see my loved father the victim of those men's
cruelty. It wasn't only Mr. Cox, there were others, I don't even know
the names of some of them. A Mr. Frey seemed to be one of the worst."

"Ellison Frey?" said Stone. "Yes, I know who he is."

"Well, anyway, I not only had to agree to marry Mr. Cox, but I had to
pretend to father that I wanted to marry him. Ugh!" she gave a shiver
of disgust.

"So this is what I did. I told Oscar Cox that I would marry him on
one condition. That was, that we should be married Saturday morning,
that we should sail on this boat Saturday afternoon, but that after
the ceremony, he should not consider me his wife, or even seem to be
acquainted with me, until we landed in Liverpool. I stipulated that I
should sail under my maiden name, and that he should pretend we were
strangers all the way across. He agreed to this more willingly than
I anticipated, for he said it meant only about a week of waiting and
he should have me under his eye all the time. He looked forward with
pleasure to the ocean trip, and I--well, my plan was to gain time to
think things over, and if I found I just simply couldn't stand the idea
of being married to him, to throw myself overboard. This I tried to do."

"Thank Heaven I was there!" breathed Trent, fervently.

"Then he bought the jewels for you?" the Captain said.

"Yes--you see they have my initials on the back--very small--E. M. C.
My name is Elizabeth Mary, and--I suppose it is Cox."

"That explains the E. M. C. on the beautiful gold-fitted dressing-case.
That was doubtless meant as a present to you."

"Yes--," Maisie sighed. "He told me he had ordered it. You see, I
didn't see him at all after the ceremony. I went straight back home
with father. Then I came to the steamer alone at sailing time. Of
course I had my passport made out in my maiden name, which was my name
when I went for the passport. And of course all my luggage bore my own
initials and all that. He gave me the jewels the moment after I became
his wife, and I put them in my bag. I wore the pearls, but the other
things I had never taken out of their cases, until--until--."

"Never mind, dear," said Trent, seeing her agitation at the remembrance.

"Well, that's about all," Maisie said; "then, then--" she smiled
bravely, "then I met Mr. Trent, and we both knew at once that we
cared for each other. So, there was nothing for me to do, but to jump
overboard. I tried to do so, and Mr. Trent saved me. I had no idea he
was there, I couldn't see him, and I thought there was nobody about.
Then--then Mr. Cox was--was killed. I suppose it's very wicked, but I
was glad! Yes, glad. I threw my wedding ring overboard, and that's what
the stewardess or somebody saw sparkle as it fell."

"You have your wedding certificate?" asked Fleming Stone, who was
deeply pondering the story as it was unrolled to him.

"Yes; though I wish I need never make it public. I mean, I wish it need
not be known that I was his wife. Must it?"

"No!" began Trent, but Stone interrupted him.

"It need not be told to the whole passenger list, perhaps," he said;
"but it is not a matter that can be kept entirely secret. You forget we
have yet to find the murderer of Oscar Cox. Miss Forman--for I for
one, shall continue to call you by that name--."

"Oh, please do," begged Maisie. "I should die if I had to be called
Mrs. Cox!"

"Miss Forman, then, have you any idea who could have done the deed?"

"Not the slightest," and Maisie looked straight into his eyes. "No, Mr.
Stone, I have no idea. The only one I can think of is Hudder, and I
have no real reason to suspect him."

"It may easily be that Cox had enemies on board of whom we know
nothing," Trent offered. "Just think of the scores of men who have
never taken part in the smoking room discussions, and never evinced any
interest or expressed any opinions on the case. If one of those had
killed Cox, that's just the way he would carry it off."

"Yes," said Stone, "you're doubtless right. Unless he were shrewd
enough to see that such a course is really more open to suspicion than
to join in the gossip."

"In either case there are too many such men, I mean possible suspects,
with not a vestige of evidence to point their way."

"Mr. Trent," Stone said, looking at him, "you are interested in
detective work, I know. Will you help me, and perhaps together we can
solve the mystery of Cox's terrible death?"

"Yes, I will," Trent responded. "I admit that I felt inclined to keep
away from the investigation when I saw how Miss Forman was getting
mixed up in the jewel matter. But now that is all cleared up, I am
ready to do all I can to track down the criminal."

"Will you tell us now, Miss Forman, what you meant by the code words
you sent to your father?"

"I have no reason for concealing anything, now," said Maisie with
a sigh of relief. "Now that my only secret, that of my marriage, is
known, I have no further secrets to hide. Yes, Captain, I will tell
you. I don't know where it originated, but it was the habit among
the men to call Mr. Cox 'Behold.' It was because his initials, O. C.
sounded like 'oh, see!' or behold. Anyway, he was called 'Behold' by
all who knew him intimately. Now, I knew my father would learn of his
death at once, through the New York papers. I did not know what to do
about my own journey, so I wirelessed father to the effect that Behold
was no more, and what should I do, go on or go back. He replied for me
to return to New York as soon as possible--but," here Maisie blushed
distractingly--"but by that time, Mr. Trent and I had come to care so
much for one another, that I didn't want to go back."

"But I'm going back with you, dear--unless we go on, and stay in
England for a time," Trent said.

"I'm not sure our private affairs interest these gentlemen," and Maisie
smiled. "But," and immediately her face grew serious again, "but I'll
tell you one thing. If it becomes known that I was--was married to Mr.
Cox, I am the one who is going to be suspected of his--murder."

"Maisie! No!" Trent cried, but Fleming Stone said:

"Yes, Miss Forman, you are quite right. And, I'm sorry, but I scarcely
think it can be kept secret. Remember, you are even now suspected of
having stolen those valuable pieces of jewelry. To clear yourself of
that charge, you will have to admit they were given to you. This will
necessitate a true statement of the situation, or--you will be supposed
to have accepted those gems from one who was merely a friend at most,
and apparently, on your own showing, a stranger!"

"It is a moil," said the girl, thoughtfully. "But I did not kill Mr.
Cox, and I do want the murderer, whoever he is, brought to justice."

"What is your opinion and advice, Mr. Stone?" the Captain asked. He had
recovered his natural poise, but he still felt shaken, as a man who has
been through a sort of mental cyclone.

"My opinion is, that Miss Forman will most certainly be looked at
askance. The truth itself is sensational, to say the least, and the
exaggerated reports which it will engender, will be a dozen times
worse! I am not an alarmist, but that is the way I see it, and I want
Miss Forman to be forewarned, and therefore forearmed."

"And I shall be, Mr. Stone," Maisie's head went up proudly. "If I
followed my inclinations, I would go into my cabin and stay there
until we land in Liverpool. But my father brought me up to face the
music--always. I have done nothing wrong. My marriage to Oscar Cox
was solely and only to save my father's reputation and life--for
imprisonment would have killed him, I am sure of that. I willingly
made the sacrifice for him, but when I found that my own death would
be preferable to life with that man, I attempted to bring it about. It
could not have nullified the sacrifice I made, for Mr. Cox had arranged
the business matters so that my father could never be blamed in any way
for what the company had done. This was his price for me and he had
paid it. So if I chose to drown rather than live with him, it was no
one's business but my own."

"Then when Mr. Cox laughingly said he'd throw you overboard, he knew
what you had tried to do?"

"He must have overheard Mr. Trent referring to it that next day. He
wanted me to know he had heard, and he chose to make that jest so
I would realize that he owned me, and could, if he chose, throw me
overboard. It was a poor and ill-timed joke, but that was his idea, I'm
sure."

"And you went to his room one night?" The Captain was himself again and
asking his own questions.

"Yes. I had a right to do so--I was his wife. I went to beg him to
release me. To try to persuade him to set me free. But I might as well
have asked the gale to stop blowing. He tried to keep me with him
then, but I reminded him of his solemn agreement not to molest me in
any way during the trip across. So he only said, 'Very well, my lady;
wait till I get you in Liverpool!' And so repulsive was he and so
impossible, that I made up my mind never to reach Liverpool."

Maisie's voice was steady, and her statements straightforward. She
spoke frankly, and her words carried the ring of truth.

"Then you must have been--pardon my plain speaking--you must have been
glad when Mr. Cox was--was out of your way."

The Captain stammered a little, but he never could quite overcome his
suspicion of the feminine nature, and he felt he must sound the girl as
to this.

"Captain Van Winkle," Maisie said, "I cannot truthfully deny that I
am glad Oscar Cox is, as you put it, out of my way. But that does not
prevent my deep regret at the manner of his passing, or lessen my
horror of the dreadful deed that brought about my freedom from that
man. He was a bad man, a very bad man, as you can all learn from people
who really knew him. But I would not rejoice at the death of the worst
man in the world, if it had to come in such a dreadful way."

"Of course, you wouldn't, Miss Forman," Stone said kindly. "Then, as I
see it, you propose to 'face the music' and take your usual place on
the deck and in the dining room?"

"Yes, Mr. Stone. I am not afraid. There is no use in advertising my
own private and personal affairs, but in so far as they must be made
public, I am willing to accept the situation. Do you think you can
clear me from the accusation of having killed Mr. Cox, or must I wait
for Scotland Yard's investigation?"

"That is what I'm thinking about," the detective returned, very
soberly. "Miss Forman, did--or does--anybody on board know of your
marriage to Mr. Cox? How about that man named Hudder? Can he know of
it?"

"I don't know about Hudder. I've no idea whether he knows it or not. I
fancy not, for Mr. Cox promised to tell no one, and I believe he meant
to keep his word."

"Then unless he told Hudder, no one knows it?"

Maisie hesitated, then she sighed.

"I am resolved, Mr. Stone, to keep nothing back. I mean to tell you
everything and anything I possibly can that may bear on this case. And
so, I must tell you that Mr. Mason knows about it."

"Sherman Mason!"

"Yes, he told me so. I don't know whether Mr. Cox told him or how he
learned it, but he told me he knew what happened on Saturday morning
before I left New York.

"How did he come to tell you this?"

Again Maisie flushed with embarrassment.

"I seem to be obliged to confess to many unpleasantnesses," she said,
smiling a little. "But the truth is, Mr. Mason informed me that I
was, as he expressed it, in deep waters, and the only way out was
for me to marry him. I'm sorry to be obliged to relate so many of my
matrimonial opportunities, but it is true. Mr. Mason then told me that
he knew of--he did not say my marriage to Mr. Cox, he didn't even
mention Mr. Cox's name--but he said, he knew the circumstances, and
knew the arrangement under which I was crossing. Of course, he meant
the agreement that Mr. Cox and I should appear as strangers on the way
over. He said that he wanted to marry me, and he said, too, that very
few men would be willing to marry me, knowing about Mr. Cox."

At this Trent swore under his breath, but said no word aloud.

"What did you say to him?" Stone inquired, almost casually.

"I wanted to say that very few would be enough!" Maisie dimpled and
smiled. "But I didn't. I didn't really feel in a jesting mood. I simply
told him that I wouldn't marry him if he was the last man on earth!
Then I left him."

"Is Mason, by any chance, mixed up in this business affair that
affected your father so disastrously?"

"I don't think so. I never heard of Mr. Mason until I came on board.
But he must have known of it through Mr. Cox, or in some way, for he
seemed to know of the Apollonia Mine, though I merely mentioned it.
I don't know, Mr. Stone, whether or not he is in the combine, or
whatever they call it, but I think not. For when he asked me to marry
him, he said he knew father and that Dad would look on him favorably as
a son-in-law. He didn't use those words, but he conveyed that idea."

"Look here," Trent said, suddenly. "What was that message Mason sent,
that used the word behold as a code word?"

"That's so," said the Captain, and looking up his records. "Here you
are. 'Behold nothing off to Italy take muff.'"

"Aha," Stone said, "then Mason knew Cox well enough to call him by that
nickname. For that message was sent the day Cox died. Surely it means
that now Cox is dead, or is nothing, he, Mason will go to Italy and
take whatever the word muff stands for. To whom is the message?"

"To a man named Frey--Ellison Frey."

"Never heard of him. Have you, Miss Forman?"

"Yes, I have heard the name; he is one of the men mixed up in that
Apollonia scheme."

"Then he didn't kill Cox--he was on his side."

"Oh, no, of course Mr. Mason didn't kill Mr. Cox! Why, as I see it, Mr.
Mason and Mr. Cox and this Mr. Frey were all banded together and all
against my father. Whatever they were, they were partners, and I think
I remember Mr. Frey as an elegant gentleman, and seemingly rather more
friendly to Dad than the others."

"Where did you meet any of these men?"

"I didn't exactly meet them--but a few times they have come to see Dad
in the evening, and if the waitress was out, I would take wine and
cakes in for them. They never spoke to me, but perhaps the next day I
might ask father who this or that one was. Mr. Cox I saw several times.
Mr. Mason I never saw. I don't know whether he ever came or not. But I
do distinctly remember Mr. Frey."

"Well, it doesn't matter," Stone said. "Now, Miss Forman, I think you
need a rest. Why don't you go to your room till tea-time and then make
your appearance on deck, with your colors flying?"

"I'll be on deck at tea-time, all right," Maisie promised him, but she
didn't agree to the plan of going to her room.

Instead, she went with Max Trent, straight to their own corner on the
upper deck.

With one accord, they went to the rail, where Trent had saved her life
that memorable night.

"Darling," he said, as they stood side by side there, "I knew I loved
you, but I didn't half know what a brick you are, nor how much you had
to bear. My Blessed Little Girl, why didn't you confide in me, sooner?"

"Oh, I couldn't, Max. I didn't know how you'd take it. And, too, every
day seemed to bring some new development. Why, I didn't know but I'd be
in irons, down in some dungeon in the hold--or wherever the dungeons
are! And I don't know yet but I shall! Isn't it strange, Max, that
that Stanhope man should turn out to be Fleming Stone!"

"It's fine! Why, he's the greatest private detective in the U. S. A.
I'd rather he'd be on this case than all Scotland Yard put together!
But, Dear Heart, there may be trouble ahead. I don't know what it will
be, but I can see that Mr. Stone is far from easy about things. So, I
want to beg of you, dearest, don't have any more secrets from me. Tell
me everything as soon as you learn of it yourself. You are mine, you
know, all mine--."

"And you don't mind that I--."

"Maisie, if you ever so much as mention that man's name to me--I'll--."

"Well, what will you do?"

"I'll call him your first husband! So, there now!"




                             CHAPTER XVII

                           MAISIE IN DANGER


Fleming Stone was not easy in his mind. Far from it. In his opinion
the trouble was not lessened by Maisie's confession. It was rather
increased. Since she had been the wife of Oscar Cox, she was now his
widow, and that was a fact of grave importance. She was heir to his
fortune--and a considerable one Stone deemed it to be. She was the
legal possessor of all his property, not only by law of inheritance
but, as Stone had heard, a will devised everything of which Cox died
possessed to his wife.

But, Stone reflected, all this was outside his jurisdiction. Those
matters must be taken up with Cox's lawyer, of course. The girl ought
to go straight back to New York and attend to it.

But, and here was the thought that was wringing Fleming Stone's
heartstrings, was she--could she be implicated in the murder?

Though greatly prepossessed in Maisie's favor, the detective could not
overlook the palpable truth that she had motive and opportunity. She
hated Cox and she was in love with Trent. She was of an impulsive and
daring nature. She was willing to take her own life rather than live
with Cox. Would she not then even take his life for the sake of being
free to marry Trent?

The horror of the idea, the apparent impossibility of that lovely girl
pursuing such a terrible course, did not strike as forcibly as it would
strike one less experienced in crimes.

He had known lovely, angelic-faced women before, who had proved to be
perfect devils, capable of the most ghastly crime.

And the more he thought it over, the more he could see how Maisie could
have done it. He had studied closely the reports of the whereabouts
of the passengers at the hour the crime was committed. He knew that
some time during that half hour, Maisie had left her chair, gone to
her room for a book, and then proceeded down to the dining room,
getting there, he had learned from her table steward, a good bit late.
Now, Cox's room was very near Maisie's, and at that time, all the
stewardesses and stewards were looking over the stair rail or getting
any post of vantage they might, to see the gay doings of the Fourth
of July celebration. Therefore, Maisie could have gone to Cox's room,
entirely unnoticed, could have picked up the Bronze Hand from his
table, and, returning the way she came, could have slipped into the
Library, deserted, of course, for the moment, and could have leaned out
of the window directly back of Cox's chair, and with a swift, sharp,
well-aimed blow, could have left the resultant wounds which Stone had
so carefully examined on the face of the dead man.

He had not the slightest doubt but that the crime had been committed
in just that way, but many people beside Maisie Forman had the
opportunity.

Now, the question was, who else had a motive?

So far as Stone knew, nobody. He dismissed the thought of Hudder.
Unless for some secret reason of hate or revenge, the man had no motive
to kill a master who was kind and generous to him. Moreover, he was
pretty well certain that Hudder was engaged in assisting preparations
for Cox's lunch. Though not elaborate, the midday meal of Oscar Cox was
always prepared with the greatest care on the part of the deck steward,
the specially chosen waiter, and Hudder himself.

And then Stone's thoughts flew to Cox.

What a strange man he was. And to think of his being really the husband
of that lovely girl, who was his unwilling wife.

The detective admired Maisie, but felt that he knew her very slightly.
He had had so little social life on board, that he knew few people.
He was engaged on a secret mission, of which the ocean crossing
represented but a small part, and he had time enough to take up this
case of the Cox murder, if he chose to do so.

And he was inclined toward it, until he thought it all over and began
to see that the tide of suspicion would inevitably turn in the girl's
direction, as soon as the sensational facts became known. Yet they had
to become known. Maisie was Cox's wife, and that could not be kept
secret. Even if those who already knew it agreed not to tell, it
wouldn't be right to countenance such secrecy.

And, too, if the girl was entirely innocent, the real murderer must be
found, and this could only be done by accepting and acknowledging the
actual conditions.

The more Stone thought about it, the more he felt that Maisie should
have a lawyer. She was too ignorant of business matters to take care of
her own interests. There was a big estate to be adjusted, and though
the Cox lawyers would attend to everything, once the heiress was back
in New York, yet she needed somebody at once to advise her and protect
her interests.

Max Trent, though her _fiancée_, was no sort of business man, and while
he would fight for her if necessary, he could be of no use in legal
matters.

Stone made up his mind he would tell Maisie all this, and then he cast
about for the right man to recommend. He felt sure Maisie would employ
anyone he suggested, and the first one that came into his mind was
Sherman Mason.

Here was a wise, competent man of the world, and though Maisie had said
he wanted to marry her, perhaps that was an argument in favor of his
being her legal adviser.

Then, too, he seemed to know all about her strange marriage, and his
familiarity with conditions would certainly be helpful. If he chose to
renew his proposal of marriage, that matter was in the girl's hands.
If, as she said, she was already engaged to Trent, then Mason would
perforce, step aside, but he seemed a man who would do all he could for
the lady, even if denied her favor.

Stone concluded to sound him out at least, and went in search of him.
Mason was in the smoking room, and Stone asked him to come with him to
sit in an alcove, and over a highball and a cigar, discuss the question
of the day.

"Are you especially interested, Mr. Stanhope?" Mason asked.

"Yes, I am," Stone replied. He had decided not to divulge his identity
unless inquired of, and then not to deny it. "You see, I'm by way of
being a bit of a detective, and the Captain has asked me to do what I
can. Now, I've just learned the astonishing news that the young lady we
call Miss Forman was--but I think you know--."

"Yes, I know," and Mason looked the detective squarely in the eye. "How
did you learn it?"

"The lady told us herself."

"Let's have no mistake, now. The lady in question told you that--the
relationship she bore to Oscar Cox?"

"Yes. She said she was his wife."

Sherman Mason looked thunderstruck. Not at the news, he knew that
before, but at the announcement that Maisie had told it.

"How did you know it?" Stone asked, quietly.

"Cox told me himself--in a moment of confidence. He was crazy over the
girl, and was gleefully looking forward to the end of the voyage, when
he could openly claim her as his wife."

"He seemed to be having a contented and happy time on board."

"Yes, that was Oscar Cox's way. He liked young people, and he had
promised not to speak to his wife, save as a casual acquaintance, all
the way over. So he just made the best of it, and played round with the
youngsters to pass the time away."

"I see. And she--didn't care for him."

"Well, I don't know much about that, but she couldn't have been deeply
in love with him, or she never would have made such a stipulation.
Then, too, she tried to drown herself, rather than live with him."

"Did she, really? Wasn't that a bit of theatricalism? Do you know her
well, Mr. Mason?"

"Never saw her till I met her on this boat."

"Yet she says you have asked her to marry you."

Sherman Mason smiled. "Mr. Stanhope, I am, naturally a squire of dames.
A woman in distress appeals to my chivalry always. Especially if she
is young and pretty, as Miss Forman certainly is. So I did offer her
marriage, and I stand by my offer, if she cares to accept it. But while
I would gladly marry her, I will tell you, it was more as an act of
protection to a young woman dangerously alone, than an affair of pure
romance."

"She is dangerously alone, Mr. Mason. You have chosen just the right
phrase. She is engaged to Mr. Trent, but though he adores her, he is
in no sense a man of legal knowledge or business experience. He is a
writer of stories, and has that detached mentality that goes with the
artistic temperament. Now, I'm wondering if your chivalry would urge
you to help this young woman through until she can get in touch with
some lawyers who are either already in charge of her husband's affairs,
or ready to become so."

"Why, Mr. Stanhope, I'd be glad to do anything I could, of course.
But--I did not know Oscar Cox well enough to butt in on his estate or
its settlement. I have heard there is a will--."

"Yes, an informal affair leaving everything to his wife. So Miss
Forman, as I shall continue to call her, is really a very great
heiress."

"Can she not go right back home, and take up the whole thing with the
Cox administrators or executors--there must be some firm at the helm."

"But, you see,"--Stone looked steadily at him, "there is yet the matter
of finding the murderer of Oscar Cox."

"Oh, that, of course. But what has the girl to do with that?"

"Don't you see--hasn't it struck you, that with this fortune willed
to her, and having fallen in love, practically at sight, with another
man--don't you see, that it was greatly to Miss Forman's advantage
to--to have Oscar Cox out of her way?"

"Good Heavens, man!" and Mason genuinely startled, "are you--you can't
be accusing--."

"Murders have been committed by women--or by their tools," said Stone,
quietly. "While I make no accusations, I do say the thing is not
impossible, and I am sure, it will be voiced as a suspicion as soon as
these marriage details become known."

"Must they become known?"

"Mr. Mason, justice must have its way. If the young lady is guilty,
even as accessory, it must be discovered. And discoveries cannot be
made if previous evidence is hidden."

"But--but it is so unthinkable! So incredible! That lovely girl--."

"But that lovely girl has a strong, an impulsive nature. Think. She
consented to marry a man she loathed. She tried to commit suicide to
get away from him. She fell in love with another man and agreed as soon
as her legal husband was dead, to marry him. Now, I agree that she is
a lovely girl, but she is not a simple-minded young miss. She is a
far-seeing woman of strong passions and indomitable courage."

"I suppose you're trying to prove that she could have killed that man
had she chosen to do so."

"Yes, without making any accusation, that is what I suggest. And so,
I say that she needs somebody to advise her, some one with legal
experience and worldly knowledge. I thought of you first, because you
are more or less conversant with the conditions, but if you prefer not
to get mixed up in the affair, you've only to say so, and I'll ask some
one else."

Sherman Mason thought for a moment. Then he said; "Just who is at the
head of all this? To whom do you report? To whom shall I report, if I
look after Miss Forman's interests?"

Stone stared at him. "I thought everybody knew there is no judge, no
court on a Liner, except the Captain. He is the head of all inquiries,
of all investigations. To him we all make our reports, and as to the
murder case, when we reach Liverpool he will turn it all over to the
C. I. D. Scotland Yard will take hold of it, and will do what they
choose in regard to the American Police. You, of course, would make
your reports to the executors of the Cox estate, on your return or Miss
Forman's return to New York."

"I see. Well, Mr. Stanhope, I will do what I can. By which I mean, I
will take on such responsibilities as you have mentioned. I will advise
Miss Forman regarding her duties and her privileges as inheritor of
her husband's estate. I will look after her interests, financially and
socially, for I daresay the poor girl will run a gauntlet on board this
ship."

"She certainly will, but she has staunch friends in Trent, you and
myself. Also, young Nash and Mr. Mallory, and, I believe, a few of the
women."

"Her list is short, because she has held aloof from the first; I have
often heard her stigmatized as snobbish, stuck-up and all that. I think
it was entirely because she was really in an equivocal position, though
no one knew it. And, I think, too, she was afraid of Cox, and dared not
mix much, lest he show displeasure."

"Oh, I don't think she was afraid of Cox. I doubt if that girl is
afraid of anybody or anything. But she was terribly handicapped by
circumstances--and is still. Very well, Mr. Mason, will you express to
her your willingness to help her in the matters we've spoken of? Will
you tell her that you are doing it at my request, and that you will
make it a business deal? For she won't consider your offer otherwise,
and too, it is only right that you should expect and receive financial
remuneration."

"Yes, that's business, and she has a large fortune," said Mason,
without any hint of greed, but as one with a sense of right and justice.

So Sherman Mason went at once in search of Maisie, and found her calmly
having her tea in her deck chair. Trent sat beside her, and Sally
Barnes was perched on her footrest.

"Please come with me for a bit of a stroll, Miss Forman," Mason said
pleasantly, as he paused in front of her, "I do want a little chat."

Something in his tone was compelling, and, too, Trent and Maisie had
had a serious talk about Mason, and she deemed it wise to have the
proposed chat. "Glad to," she said, cordially, and, rising, drew her
scarf about her and the two walked off.

"You know," he began, as soon as they were out of the way of the crowd,
"I told you you were in deep water."

"Yes, you did," she answered, lightly. "Am I still in it?"

"You are, in deeper than ever. I understand you've made your marriage
to Cox public."

Maisie started, but tried to conceal any show of agitation.

"Yes," she said, "I thought it best."

"It was best. The mistake lay in keeping it secret at all. Why did you
do it?"

"Why did I do it?" Her eyes blazed into his. "To get a respite of one
more week from that man! To be free for six or seven days, at least.
You don't think I loved him, do you?"

As Stone had said, here was no bread and butter miss! This girl, this
woman, with eyes aglow and cheeks aflame, was a creature of passion and
storm.

"He agreed to this?"

"He had to, if I married him at all. Yes, he agreed, and he stuck to
his agreement. But he was just waiting to get to Liverpool, and then he
proposed to domineer over me for the rest of my life. You knew him, Mr.
Mason, you know what a dictatorial, selfish man he was."

"Yes, I know. And you preferred drowning to living with him?"

"I certainly did!"

"Until Prince Charming came along. And then--then, you concluded that
Cox's death would serve a better purpose than your own."

Maisie stopped still and faced him. They were practically alone, no one
was within hearing distance.

"Are you implying--?"

"Hush. I'm implying nothing. I'm only warning you what is going to
happen. What I meant by saying you are in deep water. Can't you see it
for yourself? Don't you know, that as soon as it becomes known that you
were Cox's wife that you are going to be accused of his death? Don't
you know that, in your innermost soul?"

She could only stare at him--frightened, dazed, almost stunned at his
calm statements.

"I'm not accusing you, I'm not even asking you if you did or did not
kill Cox, I'm only telling you what you're up against. And, I'm asking
you to let me help you through with it all."

His voice had dropped to a tender cadence, and she knew, only too well,
what that portended.

She knew that the man was in love with her. She had had too many men
fall in love on very short acquaintance, not to recognize the symptoms.

There are some types of feminine charm that seem to impel instantaneous
surrender from men, and Maisie had long since discovered that her
beauty was of that class. At first, it had merely amused her. Then, it
had annoyed her. Now that she had found what she knew to be the love
of her life--the affection of Max Trent--the avowals of anyone else
simply disgusted her.

She tried not to show this, indeed, Mason had said nothing of that sort
as yet, but she knew intuitively what was coming, and she was on her
guard.

Speaking in the coolest tones she could command, she returned, "Thank
you Mr. Mason, you are very kind. Please tell me just what you fear for
me, and just what you propose to do to assist in averting the danger."

"Very well, I'll put it plainly, then, I fear that you are going to be
definitely accused of the death of Oscar Cox, your husband, and what I
should do, would be to free you from that accusation or even suspicion."

"You certainly put it plainly. Is it permitted to ask how you would
free me?"

"By the simple process of producing the real criminal!"

"You know him, then?"

Mason gave her a long look. In it she easily read direct accusation,
coupled with a willingness to turn the tide of suspicion against
another.

"Mr. Mason," she cried, "you believe me guilty!"

"I have not said so."

"But you do, I see it in your face. And your plan is to produce another
so called suspect, but one whom you know to be innocent--."

"You astound me, child, with your intuition. But that is exactly what
I do propose to do. It is all right that I should turn the tide of
suspicion away from you, and then if it strikes elsewhere, let the
suspect look out for himself. I would do more than that, far more, to
save your beautiful neck from the gallows!"

Maisie shuddered.

"Don't be theatrical," she said, with a sorrowful curve on her lips.
"You haven't the slightest bit of evidence against me--."

"Good Heavens! I'm not accusing you. I'm telling you that others will.
And they won't care for evidence--I mean clues and such things. They'll
just take the big facts. You were the unwilling wife of Oscar Cox. You
fell madly in love with young Trent. You put Cox out of the way in
order to be free to marry Trent. Now, don't fly into a passion. Look at
it calmly. That is what they are going to say, just as surely as that
there is a sun shining in that sky! What are you going to do about it?"

Maisie looked at him with the scared look of a hunted rabbit. He had
really frightened her at last, for in her heart she knew his words were
true.

But she pulled herself together, and spoke bravely.

"I see the thing as you put it, Mr. Mason. I've no doubt that's the way
it seems to you. You're probably right about the way I shall be looked
at and talked about. But I didn't kill Oscar Cox--."

"You little idiot! Will you never understand? Whether you did or
didn't makes not the slightest difference to public opinion. They will
conclude that you did, and they will condemn you in spite of your
protestations to the contrary."

"They can't prove I did it, if I didn't."

"In the absence of any other suspect, and with the incentive you had
they won't ask for further proof. Listen, do you know why I'm saying
all this to you? Because Stanhope--he's rather a detective--asked me
to."

"Stanhope!" Maisie was thinking. Then Mason didn't know Stanhope was
really Fleming Stone. Well, probably that didn't affect matters at all
one way or another.

"Mr. Stanhope asked you to?"

"Yes, he seems to take an interest in you, and he told me that now it
was known that you are Oscar Cox's widow," Maisie gave an involuntary
start at the word, "your financial affairs ought to be attended to by
somebody with legal knowledge and experience. So, he asked me to offer
my services--for due and proper consideration."

"Eh? Oh, yes, your bill will be paid. Just what will you do for me--in
business ways I mean?"

"Oh, see that the will is duly looked after, that the property comes to
you, and that you get all your rights in every way. That is all routine
work."

"And will you look after it?"

"Yes--for due and proper consideration. But that dueness and propriety
is a matter of opinion, payment for such services as I can and may
render you see."

"What do you mean, by that?"

"I mean, that in my opinion, the due and proper payment for such
services as I can and may render you, would be, not a monetary
consideration, but"--his voice again sank to those soft musical
cadences that Maisie dreaded, "but your own dear self."

Mason was a handsome man, and a man of charm. His voice was pleading,
his eyes shone with love-light, and had Maisie been heart-free, she
might have been drawn by the fervor of his whole attitude.

But, though she disliked to give unnecessary pain, she knew this thing
must be put a stop to, once for all.

"Mr. Mason," she said, gently, "truly I appreciate the honor you do
me, but I must ask you to dismiss from your mind the idea that I can
ever care for you other than as a friend. I am engaged to Mr. Trent,
and some day we shall be married. It may seem strange to become engaged
when the man I married has so recently died but I know you understand.
I married Oscar Cox under the stern necessity of saving my father from
financial and social ruin. But I left Mr. Cox at the altar steps, I
went home with my father and remained there until I boarded this boat.
I spoke to Mr. Cox only a few times and that most casually during the
days he was alive on board. Therefore, I cannot consider myself his
wife, save as to the mere legality of the ceremony. And so, I have
pledged myself to Max Trent with a clear conscience and a free heart,
and I can never listen to words of affection from any other man."

Her quiet, dignified speech was so full of a sense of finality, that
Sherman Mason then and there gave up all hope of ever winning the girl
for his own.

"Then," he said coldly, "you may tell Stanhope or anyone else you
please that my mission has failed, my offer is rejected. For that is
the only consideration that would induce me to take up your case in
any way. And, Mrs. Cox, I may say, further, that if you are suspected,
accused and convicted of murder, remember that I was both able and
willing to save you, had you accepted my terms."

He turned on his heel and left her, with a courteous bow, but a
sardonic smile.




                             CHAPTER XVIII

                        THE MAN IN THE LIBRARY


Slowly Maisie went back to her deck chair.

She had made up her mind that whatever she did, she would face the
music. She would show no white feather, admit no defeat, but hold up
her head and smile, at least, until circumstances should make such an
attitude impossible.

She found Sally lying back in her deck chair, and that smiling young
person hopped out as she saw Maisie approach.

"Well, my goodness!" she exclaimed as she took on herself the task of
arranging pillows and adjusting rugs, "so you're Mrs. Oscar Cox! My
goodness!" Maisie marvelled at the rapidity with which the news had got
about, not knowing that sharp ears had overheard enough of her talk
with Mason to get a start and imagination and scandal mongering had
done the rest.

Controlling her surprise, Maisie said, simply, "Yes, dear. Who told
you?"

"Oh, it's all over the boat. And, say, Maisie, they're all saying that
you killed him! Did you ever hear anything so ridiculous?"

"I certainly never did! You can deny it, if you hear it again."

"That, of course. But you must know who did kill him, don't
you, Maisie? I've been asking Mr. Trent, and he doesn't seem to
know anything! Not a blessed thing. Oh, I say, I've just thought
of something! You know, Mr. Cox told us that before we reached
Liverpool--no, when we reached there, he'd tell us something that would
give us the surprise of our lives! I'll bet it was this news, don't
you?"

"Very likely," Maisie returned. "We expected to tell it when we landed.
We had our reasons for keeping it secret during the voyage."

"Yes, of course," and Sally nodded her bobbed head sagaciously. She
was enjoying the excitement, and she cared little for the facts or the
truth, if she could get what she called "thrills" out of it.

"And so all that jewelry was really yours!" she exclaimed. "Well, can
you tie that! Isn't it wonderful to have such exciting things happen to
you!"

"Very wonderful," said Maisie, dryly.

"And you've got a new stewardess, haven't you? She's the same one we
have, and she tells us all about you. She says you cried all night last
night."

"Why, I didn't do any such thing!" said Maisie, indignantly. Then she
laughed, and turning to Trent said, "About as much privacy as the
historic gold fish! Well, it doesn't matter. But Sally, dear, don't
believe everything that's told you, especially by servants."

"Oh, they're not as bad as ladies and gentlemen! You ought to hear the
Campers hold forth! When Lady Amy first heard that you were Mrs. Cox,
she took in enough air to float her! But it wasn't half a jiff before
she was running round in circles, telling other people, and her yarns
grew bigger every song hit she made!"

"Here she comes now," said Trent, aside. "Can you stand her, dear?"

"Yes, if you'll help," Maisie smiled bravely at him.

"Oh, here you are, Mrs. Cox," said Amy Camper, as with a malicious
smile, she paused at Maisie's chair.

"Yes, here I am, Mrs. Camper, how are you today?"

"Fine. I was so surprised to hear the news about you. You don't incline
to wearing mourning, I see."

"Oh, no one does, nowadays, Mrs. Camper," Trent broke in, with an air
of tolerance of her ignorance. "I suppose they still do, where you come
from, but the cities gave it up years ago."

It was not like Trent to stoop to caustic rudeness, but he felt it was
a crisis and unless he snubbed this woman good and hard, she would make
trouble for Maisie.

"I suppose anybody of fine feelings would want to show a little respect
for a dead husband," she snapped out.

"Then allow me to correct your ideas. One might respect, but the
showing of it, as you express it, is old fashioned, and--er--is not
done by the better informed classes. Any other little points on which
you are at sea? Don't hesitate to ask me, I'm always glad to be of
service."

Trent's air was so bland, and his expression one of such kindly
condescension, that Sally burst into peals of merriment, and rushed
away to tell her crowd about it.

Her purpose was so evident, that Amy Camper flushed deeply with
annoyance.

Yet she dared not give back an impertinent answer, lest she be again
overmatched by the quick wit of her tormentor.

Maisie was shaking with silent laughter, as Amy abruptly departed.

"I didn't think you could do it, Max. I didn't know you had it in you."

"I don't often," he said, with a contrite air, "but she had it coming
to her."

"She certainly did! And I'm glad you gave it to her. Now, I suppose
she'll be more viperous than ever."

"No, I think she's scared off, a little."

"I hope so. Oh, dear shall we ever get to Liverpool? I'm not sure I can
stand much more."

"Cheer up, dear, the worst is yet to come!"

"I believe you!" and Maisie's smile was a sad one.

"That is," Max went on, "unless we can get at the murderer. Do you
know, I believe Fleming Stone is on his track. He went by a few
moments ago and he seemed elated, if I could judge by his expression.
Have we told him everything we know, Maisie?"

"Yes--I think so. Except, there's one thing, that I just now thought of
myself. You know, Max, Muff is Dad's nickname for me. It grew out of M.
F. As a Kiddy, I used to sign myself M. F. and call it Muff. And the
name stuck."

"Why, that's what they thought was a code word in Mason's wireless."

"Mason's? I thought it was in Mr. Cox's note he put in the ship's
mailbox."

"It was both. I say, dear, we must tell Stone that. He ought to have
every possible point that can help him."

"Of course; let's go and tell him, and then we must dress for dinner. I
mean to look my prettiest tonight, and dance and everything."

"Plucky girl! I'm so proud of you, Maisie, the way you carry on!"

"Only because I have you back of me. That and my offended pride. I
could do 'most anything rather than let Amy Camper see me wilt."

"She won't. Dear, I think, too, I'll show Stone the gloves that Sally
found. They seem to me to mean nothing, but they may carry a message to
him."

"Well, get them. I'll wait here."

In a moment Trent returned with the gloves from his stateroom, and they
went in search of Stone.

They found him alone, in a deserted corner of the deck, most of the
passengers having gone to dress.

First, Trent gave him the gloves and told the story of their finding.

"I know," said Stone, "why weren't these forthcoming sooner? Why so
chary of them?"

"Didn't think the matter of any account," Max said, flushing a little,
for he could see the detective was deeply interested in them.

"Gloves are always interesting," Stone said, dropping his eager air,
but stuffing the gloves in his pocket. "Anything else?" for he could
see Maisie had something to tell.

"Yes, Mr. Stone," she spoke low. "I want to tell you about the word
Muff. It is a name for me, though I don't know whether it carries that
meaning in the letters and messages you have found."

"Of course it does." Stone stared at her. "Did Mason ask you to let him
look after your law business?"

She gave him a brief but complete account of the proposition Mason had
made to her, and the consideration he had stipulated.

"I rather looked for that," and Stone nodded. "Well, Miss Forman,
can't you see, that he hoped for better luck in his wooing? He sent a
wireless to Frey, you know, that, as we read it, meant Cox was dead and
he would take Muff with him to Italy."

"Meaning me!" exclaimed Maisie, while Trent suppressed the ejaculation
that rose to his lips.

"Yes. And furthermore, I'm inclined to think that the letter enclosed
in another letter, which we found Mr. Cox had put in the ship's
mailbox, marked J. F. had an ultimate destination at your father's
house. And that 'Muff all right,' was an assurance of your own well
being."

"It must be as you say," said Maisie, musingly. "Oh, Mr. Stone, you can
do so much, can't you do more? Can't you find out who killed Oscar Cox?
Unless you do, it looks pretty black for--."

"Tut, tut! you're not going to despair, I hope. Give me a little more
time. Are you subjected to much unpleasantness, Miss Forman?"

"Yes, she is," Trent asserted. "But she's as brave as they come, and if
you can bring it off, and succeed in your quest, we'll try to forget
the slings and arrows that are being hurled at us. Of course, it hits
Miss Forman the hardest, but I want to back her up, and buck her up all
I can."

"You do, Max," the girl said, "if it were not for you, I'd just lay me
doon and dee!"

"Run along, children," Stone said, in a kindly way, "keep up your
courage, and, for Heaven's sake if you have any more gloves or
information or anything so much as a pin's worth, do bring it to me.
Don't hide it under a bushel!"

Maisie had a difficult evening. She donned one of her smartest and most
becoming dance frocks, she assumed a manner of lightness and gayety,
and to look at her, one would think she had not a care in the world.

The news had swept the ship like wildfire. Everybody, almost, who spoke
to her called her Mrs. Cox, and though it made her wince, she realized
it was their right to do so.

Polly Nash and Hal Mallory were delightfully sympathetic, and showed it
by avoiding the subject uppermost in everyone's mind, and talking gay
nonsense that helped to put Maisie more at her ease.

She was besieged by partners begging for dances, and at last went to
her room, thoroughly tired out.

Trent took her for a brief good night to their tryst on the upper deck,
but she dared not say much for she felt there were spies everywhere.

"If I knew what to fear, it would be easier," she said, with a pathetic
little sigh. "But this vague fear of something or somebody unknown is
wearing me out."

"My blessed Darling," Trent whispered, "brave it out a little longer.
We'll land Sunday morning, and then, whatever happens, we'll meet it
together."

They said good night, and Maisie went to her room. She felt more
depressed than ever before. She began to despair of Stone's success,
and the way Mason had talked and the way he felt about her refusal to
accept his terms, seemed to her to portend dire and immediate disaster.

But next morning she felt better and more able to cope with her
difficulties. She was dressing, after her morning coffee, when a note
was brought her summoning her to the Captain's room at once.

Hastily finishing her toilette, she ran off and was not surprised to
find Fleming Stone and Max Trent both there.

There was no one else present, but there was a feeling of suppressed
excitement discernible, and she felt almost certain that she was about
to hear something encouraging.

"I believe," Fleming Stone said, with a quiet smile, "that it is
considered claptrap and poppycock when a detective reads from some
inconsequential clue, the complete description of the criminal."

"That's what I build stories on," said Trent, smiling in return. "If I
didn't do that I'd make no hit at all."

"It's what I propose to do now," said Stone, speaking more gravely,
this time. "You see these gloves."

He held up to view the gloves that Sally had retrieved from the women
in the lower cabin.

"These," he went on, "tell me the whole story. That is, using them
in addition to the facts I had already learned. As you see, they are
new gloves, apparently never worn, save on the tragic occasion of Mr.
Cox's death. I speak thus definitely, for I am sure of my deductions.
They are of fine quality, tan kid, and made by one of New York's best
haberdashers. They are large size, I mean larger than the average man's
hand."

"Yes, they're larger than I wear," said the Captain showing marked
interest, "and I have a large hand."

"These are the gloves worn by the Man in the Library. The man who
killed Oscar Cox, by leaning out of the Library window, and striking
him twice--two fearful blows--with that heavy and deadly weapon, the
Bronze Hand. He wore the gloves, of course, in order that he should
leave no telltale finger prints on the bronze, which he threw from him
as soon as it had served his purpose. Now, the murderer, as we agreed
long ago, is of a most clever and acute intelligence. He was smart
enough to buy new gloves for this deed, and to buy them too large for
himself, which was a fine bit of precaution.

"This is not surmise only, for you can see if you carefully note these
blood stains on this glove, that the way the kid folds over, and the
stains show on the folds, proves that the glove was on the hand of a
man who would naturally take a smaller size."

Maisie was content to take Stone's word for this, but the two men
looked at the glove intently, and saw it was as the detective said.

"Of course, he wore only one glove, the right one. The other is stained
where they were rolled together. The murderer's mistake lay in his
throwing the gloves overboard to windward, which he must have done,
since they blew in below deck and fell at the feet of the women in the
lower cabin.

"Now, from these gloves, and from other information I have picked up,
I deduce the murderer of Oscar Cox to be a large, rather stout man of
medium height and with hands rather small in proportion to his muscular
strength. He has hair that is slightly gray, is beginning to show a
hint of baldness, wears a short close-cropped moustache, has a group of
small wrinkles at the outer corner of each eye, is an up-to-date and
immaculate dresser, wears a seal ring, with his family crest on it and
is addicted to light blue neckties."

As he proceeded Stone smiled a little, and as his hearers grew more and
more astounded, he allowed himself a slight chuckle of amusement.

But Maisie Forman did not smile.

"If that is your Man in the Library, Mr. Stone," she said, slowly,
"then the murderer--for you have described him perfectly--is Sherman
Mason."

Stone bowed in acquiescence, and the Captain struck the table sharply
with his fist.

"Do you mean that?" he cried. "Do you mean that Mr. Mason killed Oscar
Cox?"

"I do," Stone said, "and I recommend that you take what action you
think best, but do it promptly. He is a slippery customer, and quite
capable of eluding you at Liverpool, unless carefully guarded."

"Well, well," and Captain Van Winkle pondered. "Sherman Mason. And the
motive, Mr. Stone?"

"That I cannot state positively, but it was some matter connected with
the group of swindlers--or at least crooked promoters of which Miss
Forman told us. All such matters can be cleared up later. I fancy,
Captain, that if you get the man in here and put him through a course
of sprouts, he may be induced to confess."

Calling a messenger the Captain sent for Mason at once.

"You didn't really get all that from the gloves?" he said to Stone.

"Oh, no, I was just stringing you. I had made up my mind Mason was our
man, one day in the smoking room, when I noticed his acute attention to
the opinions of others about the Cox case, while never voicing his own
thoughts. Then when I saw the gloves, I remembered how eagerly Mason
had listened when they were discussed that day, and, too, I realized
how clever Mason was and how like him it would be to buy those new and
large gloves as a precaution against possible discovery."

There was a tap at the door, and instead of Mason, the man Hudder
presented himself.

"Captain, sir," he said awkwardly, "I have to tell you that Mr. Mason,
is--gone."

"Gone! What do you mean?"

"He is gone--drowned--overboard from the ship. Here, sir."

Hudder handed out a folded note, which the Captain quickly read and
then passed it to Stone, who read it aloud.

  "To whom it may concern. I am tired of life, and since my love
  for a certain woman is unrequited, I have nothing to live for.
  Therefore, I am about to commit suicide by drowning. It is now
  three A.M. and no one will be about, on deck. I shall throw
  myself overboard. I make no confession or admission of any
  wrongdoing, and I request that my effects be sent to my home in
  accordance with the labels I have affixed.
                                                 "Sherman Mason."

"Well, to my mind that's tantamount to a confession," said Trent. "The
man knew he was in for it, and he preferred death by drowning to the
electric chair."

But to his surprise, he heard a throaty gurgle behind him, and turned
to see Fleming Stone holding Hudder down by the throat and speaking in
a menacing voice.

"Tell me," he said, "tell me at once, and truly where Mr. Mason is, or
you will be arrested for the murder of your master, Mr. Cox."

For a short time, Hudder remained silent, and then at a slight
manifestation of _jiu jitsu_ from Stone he gave a cry of pain, and
gasped. "I tell! I tell! Let me up!"

Stone let him up, and still holding him by the collar, said, sternly,
"Tell, then!"

"I can't tell--but I show."

"Very well. Captain, this note is a fake. Mason is not overboard at
all. This man knows where he is. Pardon me for taking matters so much
into my own hands, but I felt sure that to strike at once was the way
to manage this thing. Will you send two husky men with Hudder to bring
Mason here?"

Quickly comprehending, the Captain did so, and after a time, the
men returned bringing between them a very angry and red-faced, but
quiet-mannered Mason.

"Well, the jig is up!" he said, as he slumped into a chair and looked
about at the faces of those confronting him. "Sorry I didn't pull it
off better. Who are you, Stanhope, anyway? You've got my goat!"

"He's Fleming Stone!" exclaimed Trent, unable to resist this
opportunity to startle Mason.

"Oh, Lord, is that so! Well, no wonder I couldn't get away with
it. And may I ask, Mr. Stone, why you didn't believe in my little
_billet-doux_?"

"Only because it didn't sound genuine," Stone returned, carelessly. "A
man about to kill himself doesn't write so collectedly and casually.
Anyway that's how it struck me. Now, Mr. Mason, do you want to make a
confession as to the killing of Oscar Cox?"

"An explanation, rather than a confession," said the man, who was
breathing heavily now, and seemed on the verge of collapse.

But he pulled himself together, and after a secretary had been called
in he told his story.

"We were four of us, Frey, Forman, Cox and myself. We did do some
crooked work, and Forman, Miss Maisie's father, though he did nothing
wrong, was made the cat's-paw. He was our tool, and he was so innocent
that we used him unscrupulously until the very end. Then, as he was in
bad, and about to go under, Cox, who was the Judas Iscariot and carried
the bag, turned traitor, and told Forman if he would give him his
daughter, he, Cox would save Forman from all disgrace and trouble.

"The temptation was strong, and when Miss Forman learned of it, she
insisted on accepting the chance to save her father. She made her
stipulation for a week's freedom on board the boat, and I daresay she
did mean to kill herself rather than land at Liverpool in Oscar Cox's
care. Well, when Frey, who is the arch fiend behind the whole thing,
learned of Cox's perfidy--you see Cox had really decamped with all the
funds, except what he paid Forman--he, Frey, offered me an enormous sum
of money to follow Cox and kill him. So, as you see I'm merely Frey's
tool, too--merely a gunman. Yes, I killed Cox and I'm glad I did. He
was all kinds of a bad man and I'd gladly killed him if only to rescue
Miss Forman from his clutches. Anyway, there's all there is of it. Now,
I've turned State's evidence, you want to get hold of Frey--he's the
real villain of the piece. Better send a quick message Captain, and
arrest him right off. You see, I thought after Cox was out of it, I
could get Miss Maisie for myself--but I didn't."

Mason was a pitiable object. His gentlemanly aspect which he had worn
as a garment slipped away, and he was his true self, a common, wicked
criminal.

He began to talk wildly, he used bad language, and as he blurted out a
terrible oath, Trent rose and drew Maisie to him, and quickly led her
from the room.

"They don't need us, dear," he said, gently, as they went out to their
deck chairs. "The Captain will put that terrible man where he belongs,
and Stone and the Captain together will take care of the rest. Try to
forget it all, for the moment, anyway, and just realize that it's all
over so far as you are concerned."

And so it was. Mason was kept prisoner until he was turned over to the
authorities at Liverpool. Frey was apprehended and both he and Mason
later paid the extreme penalty.

But thanks to their youth and buoyancy, thanks to their love and
happiness, Trent and his Maisie were able to throw off the remembrance
of the voyage, and Lily Gibbs proved an efficient and satisfactory
chaperon until circumstances made it convenient for the wedding to take
place.

This occurred in London, and Sally Barnes insisted on being bridesmaid.
After the ceremony she greeted the bride with her usual breezy air,
saying:

"Now, Mrs. Trent, you can be as upstage as you like--you can't scare
me!"


                               THE END.






TRANSCRIBER NOTES
Lines between two paragraphs were scrambled on page 132, and have been corrected.

Minor printer errors have been fixed.

[The end of The Bronze Hand, by Carolyn Wells]