Varney halted at the head of the companionway, surprisingly disappointed. From the moment when the _Cypriani_ had put about, he had been insistently conscious that his first duty now was to see Mr. Carstairs, beg absolution from his promise, and formally surrender his commission. So only, he had felt, could he go on with clean hands. "Well, don't look so glum over it," said Peter. "You're not any sorrier about your prolonged stay in our midst than I am." Varney turned an inquiring eye upon him, and he began walking rather restlessly up and down the deck. "Oh, this same old rot!" he broke out impatiently. "I'll never be easy in my mind till you are back in New York, and _stay_ there--" "Well, well, Peter! Stick it out for three hours more--" "Not long after you and Miss Carstairs steamed off," continued Peter, "Hare blew back down here, tired of waiting and a little excited. He had just heard some passing whispers about you and me. He says there seems to be a little suppressed excitement in town this afternoon." "Why, I thought your paper had kicked all that nonsense into a cocked hat." "A lot of people don't believe the paper, though," said Peter. "On the contrary they believe that you are Stanhope and that you bought the _Gazette_ to disown yourself and save your hide. A foolish idea, but it has doubtless been helped out by whispers from higher up. Smith's selling out has made Ryan see red. Smith's still in town, by the way, which argues a good deal of cool nerve on his part. Hare hears that Ryan is in a murdering humor--" "You seem to forget entirely that Stanhope--the real, the genuine, double-extry-guaranteed--has appeared, to bear his own--" "But Hunston doesn't know it yet!" exclaimed Peter. "Kindly get that well into your head. All these Hackleys and Orricks still think that you're their meat--Where're you going?" Varney, pausing at the hatch, deliberated whether he should say anything to Peter about Mr. Higginson's latest and most daring intrusion, and declared for the negative. "There's no reason," he mused, "why I should let him in on this. And besides--" "To town," he said aloud. "I've got to send a telegram to Uncle Elbert. He's very much on my conscience--poor old chap!" "I'll go with you. Got a Reform Committee meeting at five-thirty. And some other business." But Varney had already disappeared below. Peter picked up his splendid guitar and, sprawling upon the transom, gave himself up to soft humming and, presently, to the work of composition. Soon, after some little painstaking effort, he produced the following, to be rendered to the tune of "Yankee Doodle": The tale of crime is at an end, For little Laurence Va-arney Declines to swipe his loidy friend Upon the _Cypria-a-ani_!