Lifting the little girl that was his own, and of the woman he loved, he held her for a brief moment tight to his breast. In her little ear he whispered: "Bye, little sweetheart." She clung to him, little hands about his neck.... He set her down again upon the floor. She ran to Blake, waiting. The deep lids of Kathryn were half veiling the violet eyes--eyes moist, and very soft. There was a little tremor of the sensitive lips. Schuyler drew her to him, so that she faced him, and whispered: "Au revoir, big sweetheart.... Don't you dare to cry.... I know how it hurts; but be a brave little woman.... I'll make my stay just as short as possible." "You'll cable?" she asked, tremulously. "Cable?" he repeated. "I'll keep that wireless snapping all the way across.... Now let me see you smile." She tried. It was a wan, sad little smile--a smile that was close of kin to a tear. She clung to him for a moment; then her fingers loosened their hold; she stepped back, white teeth holding nether lip. It was bitterly hard. He looked; and with more understanding than many a man might have, turned swiftly. Parks stepped forward. "Shan't I go with you?" he asked. Schuyler shook his head. "No," he returned. "Come with Mrs. Schuyler--meet me at the boat. I'm going alone." He thrust open the door. Came a wail of wind, a swirl of rain; and then, as he crossed the threshold, the very heaven itself seemed to be reft apart with a great, wild flash of lightning--the roar of the thunder was appalling. Schuyler started back. He forced a laugh. "Were I a superstitious man," he remarked, "I might take that for an omen." And then he was gone. [Illustration] CHAPTER FOURTEEN. YOUNG PARMALEE--AND THE WOMAN. He came slinking down the deck of the liner, furtive of eye, uneven of tread. A young man he was--and yet old; for while his body told of youth, his face bespoke age--the unnatural forced age--the hot-housed growth of they who live in the froth of life--in the froth that it is hard to tell from the scum. He was tall, and well-set-up. His clothes hung well about his body; they were of fine texture and make, yet unpressed, uncared for. He had been handsome; but he was no longer; for the eyes looked forth from hollows in his face. His cheeks were sunken. His lips were leaden. He was unshaven, ungroomed, unkempt. Looking nervously, this way and that, he made his way among the jostling throngs to one of the passages. Searching with sunken eyes for a numbered door, he knocked upon it with the knuckles of his left hand; his right rested at his side, covered with a handkerchief of white silk.... He knocked; and stepped back, quickly. There was no answer; the door remained shut. He stepped forward again, thrusting the door wide open. The stateroom was empty. He turned. Out upon the deck he strode; then, starting back, he concealed himself in the passageway that he had just left.