de a sound. Kosmaroff leaned forward
and peered into the fog. The patrol-boats were behind now, and the
officers were calling to each other.

"What was it--a boat or a floating tree?" they heard them ask each
other.

Kosmaroff was staring ahead, but he saw Martin make a quick movement in
the bottom of the boat.

"What is it?" he whispered.

"A bullet," answered Martin. "It came through the side of the boat, low
down. It struck me in the back--the spine. I cannot move my legs. But I
have stopped the water from coming in. I have my finger in the hole
the bullet made below the water-line. I can hold on till we have passed
through Thorn."

He spoke in his natural voice, quite cheerfully. They were not out of
danger yet. Kosmaroff could not quit the steering-oar. He glanced at
Martin, and then looked ahead again uneasily.

Martin was the first to speak. He raised himself on his elbow, and
with a jerk of the wrist threw something towards Kosmaroff. It was an
envelope, closed and doubled over.

"Put that in your pocket," he said. And Kosmaroff obeyed.

"You know Miss Cahere, who was at the Europe?" asked Martin, suddenly,
after a pause.

Kosmaroff smiled the queer smile that twisted his face all to one side.

"Yes, I know her."

"Give her that, or get it to her," said Martin.

"But--"

"Yes," said Martin, answering the unasked question, "I am badly hit,
unless you can do something for me after we are past Thorn."

And his voice was still cheerful.

XXXVI

CAPTAIN CABLE SOILS HIS HANDS

Cartoner was preparing to leave St. Petersburg when he received a letter
from Deulin. The Frenchman wrote from Cracow, and mentioned in a rather
rambling letter that Wanda was staying with a relative in that ancient
city. He also thought it probable that she would make a stay in England
pending the settlement of certain family affairs.

"I suppose," wrote Deulin, "that you will soon be on your way home.
I think it likely we shall both be sent to Madrid before long. At all
events, I hope we may meet somewhere. If you are passing through Dantzic
on your homeward journey, you will find your old friend Cable there."

This last sentence was partly disfigured by a peculiar-shaped blot.
The writer had evidently dropped his pen, all laden with ink, upon the
letter as he wrote it. And Cartoner knew that this was the kernel, as it
were, of this chatty epistle. He was bidden to make it convenient to go
to Dantzic and to see