well.
I have seen them. Poor--poor, little creatures--dying like that!"

Miss Vost sniffled for a moment. Brightly she said:

"I like to talk to you, Mr. Moore. You're so--so sympathetic!"

A great, dark shadow bulked up against the rail alongside Peter.

"Good evening, folks!" declared the pleasant bass voice of Bobbie
MacLaurin.

"We were just talking about you, Bobbie," said Peter affably. "As I
was telling Miss Vost, you're the most sympathetic man I ever knew!
Good night, Miss Vost. Night, Bobs!"

CHAPTER XIII

When Peter descended the stairway into the narrow vestibule which
served as reception-hall, dining-saloon, and, incidentally, as the
corridor from which the _Hankow's_ four small staterooms were entered,
he had the chilly feeling that the darkness had eyes.

Yet he saw nothing. The cabin was dark. Three round ports glimmered
greenly beyond the staircase on the cabin's forward side. The glimmer
was occasioned by the refracted rays of the _Hankow's_ dazzling
searchlight. But these were not the ones he felt.

Gradually his own eyes became accustomed to the pulp-like darkness. He
steadied his body against the gentle swaying of the steamer, and
endeavored to listen above, or through, the imminent thrashing and
clattering of the huge engine.

He examined the four stateroom doors anxiously. As the darkness began
to dissolve slightly, Peter, still conscious that eyes were fastened
upon him, made the discovery that the stateroom adjoining his was
slightly ajar. The moon favored him--Miss Vost's impersonal moon. It
outlined against the slit what appeared to be a large, irregular block.

Peter decided that the irregular block was nothing more nor less than
the head of a man. To prove that his surmise was correct, Peter
quickly shifted the revolver from his right hand to his left, brought
it even with his eyes and--struck a match.

In the startling flare of the phosphorus the evil glint of Celestial
eyes was instantly revealed in the partly opened door.

With incredible softness the door was closed. Where there had been
half-lidded eyes, a positive snarl, and a shock of blue-black hair was
now a white-enameled panel.

Peter continued to smile along the barrel, which glistened in the dying
flame of the match. He unlocked his door, closed it, and shot the
bolt. Switching on the electric light, he cautiously drew back the
sheet. Apparently satisfied, he sniffed the air. It was not