ietly cheerful. With something
akin to pleasure that the struggle was over, and that events were out
of his hands for the time being, he settled down in his chair and
picked up a magazine.

He had hardly opened it when a thought occurred to him. If the course
was north a little west, how did it happen that the sun streamed into
his room, which was on the east side of the ship on that course?

He sprang to the port and looked out.

The sun smote him full in the face. He strained his eyes against the
horizon that was unusually clear for this foggy sea, and would have
sworn that along its edge was a dark line of land. The conclusion was
inevitable.

The _Albatross_ was flying directly south as fast as her whole spread
of canvas could take her.

Schofield could not explain this phenomenon to himself, nor did he
try. The orders that a man-of-war sailed under were none of his
affair, and if the captain chose to institute a hunt for the north
pole before delivering a prisoner in port, naturally he had a perfect
right to do so. It was possible, Code told himself, that another
miserable wretch was to be picked up before they were both landed
together.

Whatever course Captain Foraker intended to lay in the future his
present one was taking him as far as possible away from Grande Mignon,
St. Andrew's, and St. John's. And for this meager comfort Code
Schofield was thankful.

The sun remained above the horizon until six o'clock, and then
suddenly plumped into the sea. The early September darkness rushed
down and, as it did so, a big Tungsten light in the ceiling of Code's
room sprang into a brilliant glow, the iron cover to the porthole
being shut at the same instant.

A few moments later the door of his cell was unceremoniously opened
and a man entered bearing an armful of fresh clothing.

"Captain Schofield," he said, with the deference of a servant, "the
captain wishes your presence at dinner. The ship's barber will be here
presently. Etiquette provides that you wear these clothes. I will fix
them and lay them out for you. If you care for a bath, sir, I will
draw it--"

"Say, look here," exclaimed our hero with a sudden and unexpected
touch of asperity, "if you're trying to kid me, old side-whiskers,
you're due for the licking of your life."

He got deliberately upon his feet and removed the fishing-coat which
he had worn uninterruptedly since the night at St. Pierre.

"I thought I'd read about you in that magaz