re's a good fellow!"

And in the end, Marshall went doubtfully away.

Dan went to work at himself immediately with mechanical thoroughness. He
filled his tub with cold water, undressed and plunged into it, dipping
his head under half a dozen times. Then he rubbed down with the roughest
towel he could find, gave himself a vigorous massage from head to feet,
took a sharp turn with a pair of dumb-bells, got into fresh clothes, and
began to feel more like himself.

"There," he said; "that's better. Now let's see if this thing is real,
or only a nightmare."

He went to his coat, got out the pasteboard box, placed it on a table,
sat down before it, and carefully removed the lid.

No, it was not a nightmare. There was the cake of soap--pink, scented
soap--weighted with the nickel coins. Poising the box in his hand, he
understood why the coins had been added. Without them, the box would
have been too light. He pulled one of the coins out and looked at it. It
was a German piece of twenty pfennigs, such as any one on the ship might
have used. He put it carefully back, and lay down on his bed to reason
the thing out.

How had the substitution been made? How _could_ it have been made? Every
day the box had been in his pocket; every night it had been beneath his
pillow. There was only one explanation--the change must have been made
while he was asleep. Some one had entered the stateroom, slipped out the
other box with a cautious hand and substituted this one. Whoever it was
must have been familiar with the weight of the other box and with the
way it was wrapped and sealed. But how was that possible? No one could
have seen Miss Vard give it to him; no one could have known that he had
it.

And then Dan sat suddenly erect. Chevrial might have known. Chevrial
might have seen him slip it into his pocket as he dressed. Yes, Chevrial
might have done it. Who was Chevrial? How should a wine-merchant know so
much about spies and diplomacy and German princes? There had always been
about him an air of power, of reserve force. Yes, and an air of
mystery--the air of one who knows a great many things he does not choose
to tell.

Chevrial was undoubtedly a spy himself.

And, as he found this answer, Dan wondered that it had not occurred to
him long before. For it furnished the clue upon which Chevrial's words
and hints and looks and warnings were strung together as on a thread!

There could be no doubt about it: Chevrial was a spy, enga