nued Cunningham, "what a fine
thing it is to possess something to stand on firmly--a moral plank."

Dennison's laughter was sardonic.

"Moral plank is good," was his comment.

"Miss Norman," said Cunningham, maliciously, "I slept beside the captain
this morning, and he snores outrageously." The rogue tilted his chin and
the opal fire leaped into his eyes. "Do you want me to tell you all about
the Great Adventure Company, or do you want me to shut up and merely
proceed with the company's business without further ado? Why the devil
should I care what you think of me? Still, I do care. I want you to get my
point of view--a rollicking adventure, in which nobody loses anything and
I have a great desire fulfilled. Hang it, it's a colossal joke, and in the
end the laugh will be on nobody! Even Eisenfeldt will laugh," he added,
enigmatically.

"Do you intend to take the oils and the rug and later return them?"
demanded Jane.

"Absolutely! That's the whole story. Only Cleigh here will not believe it
until the rug and oils are dumped on the door-step of his New York home. I
needed money. Nobody would offer to finance a chart with a red cross on
it. So I had to work it out in my own fashion. The moment Eisenfeldt sees
these oils and the rug he becomes my financier, but he'll never put his
claw on them except for one thing--that act of God they mention on the
back of your ticket. Some raider may have poked into this lagoon of mine.
In that case Eisenfeldt wins."

Cleigh smiled.

"A pretty case, Cunningham, but it won't hold water. It is inevitable that
Eisenfeldt gets the rug and the paintings, and you are made comfortable
for the rest of your days. A shabby business, and you shall rue it."

"My word?"

"I don't believe in it any longer," returned Cleigh.

Cunningham appealed to Jane.

"Give me the whole story, then I'll tell you what I believe," she said.
"You may be telling the truth."

What a queer idea--wanting his word believed! Why should it matter to him
whether they believed in the honour of his word or not, when he held the
whip hand and could act as he pleased? The poor thing! And as that phrase
was uttered in thought, the glamour of him was dissipated; she saw
Cunningham as he was, a poor benighted thing, half boy, half demon, a
thing desperately running away from his hurt and lashing out at friends
and enemies alike on the way.

"Tell your story--all of it."

Cunningham began:

"About a year ago the