“Compliments of Mr. Marston!” called the secretary from the bridge ladder. “What steamer is that?” “_Conorno_ of the Bee line, sir,” stated Captain Mayo over his shoulder. Then he ripped out a good, hearty, deep-water oath. According to appearances, incredible as the situation seemed, the _Conorno_ proposed to drive the yacht inside the whistler. Mayo ran to the wheel and yanked the bell-pull furiously. There were four quick clangs in the engine-room, and in a moment the _Olenia_ began to quiver in all her fabric. Going full speed ahead, Mayo had called for full speed astern. Then he sounded three whistles, signaling as the rules of the road provide. The yacht's twin screws churned a yeasty riot under her counter, and while she was laboring thus in her own wallow, trembling like some living thing in the extremity of terror, the big steamer swept past. Froth from the creamy surges at her bows flicked spray contemptuously upon Julius Marston and his guests on the _Olenia_'s quarter-deck. Men grinned down upon them from the high windows of the steamer's pilot-house. A jeering voice boomed through a megaphone: “Keep out of the way of the Bee line! Take the hint!” An officer pointed his finger at Marston's house flag, snapping from the yacht's main truck. The blue fish-tail with its letter “M” had revealed the yacht's identity to searching glasses. “Better make it black! Skull and cross-bones!” volunteered the megaphone operator. On she went down the sea and the _Olenia_ tossed in the turbulent wake of the kicking screws. Then, for the first time, Captain Mayo heard the sound of Julius Marston's voice. The magnate stood up, shook his fist at his staring captain, and yelled, “What in damnation do you think you are doing?” It was amazing, insulting, and, under the circumstances as Mayo knew them, an unjust query. The master of the _Olenia_ did not reply. He was not prepared to deliver any long-distance explanation. Furthermore, the yacht demanded all his attention just then. He gave his orders and she forged ahead to round the whistler. “Nor'west by west, half west, Billy. And cut it fine!” The fog had fairly leaped upon them from the sea. The land-breeze had been holding back the wall of vapor, damming it in a dun bank to southward. The breeze had let go. The fog had seized its opportunity. “Saturday Cove for us to-night, Mr. McGaw,” said the master. “Keep your eye over Billy's shoulder.” Then the secretary appeared again on the ladder. This time he did not bring any “compliments.” “Mr. Marston wants you to report aft at once,” he announced, brusquely. Mayo hesitated a moment. They were driving into blankness which had shut down with that smothering density which mariners call “a dungeon fog.” Saturday Cove's entrance was a distant and a small target. In spite of steersman and mate, his was the sole responsibility. “Will you please explain to Mr. Marston that I cannot leave the bridge?”