f you wish," she said.

"Thank you--I _do_ wish. Besides, I shall have something to return to
you."

"Hush!" she cautioned, with a frightened glance around. "Do not speak of
it. And I must be going. We must not sit here so long together."

He sighed.

"I suppose you are right," he agreed. "But every evening I shall sit on
a certain bench and think of you. And, remember, the first evening on
land is mine."

"I shall remember."

"Good-bye till then," he said, and rose.

"Good-bye, my friend."

Her eyes were shining. He dared not trust himself to look at them a
second time, but turned himself about, by main force, as it were, and
marched himself off, straight along the deck, down the ladder, and up
again to "a certain bench."

And there, presently, M. Chevrial joined him, but for once Dan found
that witty Frenchman something of a bore.

CHAPTER XIX

THE SECOND CONFERENCE

Again a rope was stretched across the forward promenade, and, for the
information of the curious, a sign attached to it bearing the single
word "Paint." Again a guard was stationed in front of the Captain's
cabin, but this time it consisted of two petty officers. Again the
Captain surprised his subordinates by mounting to the bridge, although
the night was clear and fine. They noticed that he was lost in thought,
and that he went often to the head of the ladder leading to the deck and
glanced down it. The second officer was on duty, and he took occasion to
look down, too, on one of his turns along the bridge, but all he could
see was a stretch of empty deck and two petty officers leaning against
the rail chatting together. The second officer wondered more and more at
his commander's uneasiness, and surreptitiously inspected the barometer,
tapping it with his finger; but he knew better than to ask any
questions.

Meanwhile, in the Captain's cabin, Vard, Pachmann and the Prince again
faced each other. Perhaps it would be more exact to say that Vard and
Pachmann faced each other, while the Prince looked on from the
side-lines. In the heart of that young gentleman, for the past three
days, there had been a strange distress, hitherto unknown among
Hohenzollerns--the distress of realising that, if truth were told, he
was a poor thing who added not to the wealth of the world, but to its
poverty; who was unable to support himself, but to support whom men and
women and children toiled and starved.

He had never seen it just like that be