“What, in the name of wonder, are you doing on this ship?” Ensleigh asked. O’Shea shrugged his shoulders. He had some queerly Gallic mannerisms. In fact, if one had not known better, one must have written him off as an incurable poseur. “Peace-time soldiering is a dull business,” he replied. “I take on odd jobs to keep me out of mischief.” He rang for the steward and ordered drinks in what I believe was unexceptionable German. Following some aimless chatter: “Are you for Bremen?” asked Ensleigh. “I don’t know,” said O’Shea surprisingly. He twirled his glass and stared around the smoke-room. “I may come ashore here.” “You _may_!” I exclaimed and glanced at the clock. “You have twenty minutes to decide!” “Two would be sufficient,” he assured me. “I travel light!” He smiled--and, in the smile, I met for the first time the real O’Shea. The cold gray eyes were cold no longer; they smiled, too--whimsically, lovably. The cloak of inscrutability was dropped, just for a moment, and the clean, brave soul of the man peeped out. A vague dislike vanished as morning mist, and I knew that men would follow Edmond O’Shea into the thickest and the hottest, if he needed them; women, too, perhaps. A man like that is a man born to suffer. But suddenly I understood why the Guards had worshipped him. “There goes the first shore signal,” said Ensleigh. “We had better rescue Nanette from the lager.” We found her on deck with Jack and another man who had tacked himself on to the party. He was a poisonously handsome none-such, and his heavy-lidded dark eyes were literally devouring the girl’s dainty beauty. He had come across Jack in London; and now Jack was the most unhappy man in Madeira. Every time roguish blue eyes met lustful brown eyes, he visibly shuddered. The dark gentleman was presented. “Ensleigh, Decies--meet Senhor Gabriel da Cunha.” We met him--reluctantly. “This,” said Ensleigh, “is Mr. Jack Kelton--Major Edmond O’Shea. Doubtless, Senhor da Cunha, you have met already?” “No,” murmured O’Shea, bowing coldly. “One does not meet everybody on board.” “Nanette!” I called. She had stepped to the rail with Da Cunha. She turned. “Yes?” “I want you to know Major Edmond O’Shea.” She came forward and I introduced them formally. Nanette gave one quick, startled look at O’Shea--and O’Shea, noting her unusual attire, smiled. Nanette dropped her lashes, said something meaningless, and ran back to Da Cunha. I heard Jack grind his teeth. When he joined the pair at the rail I stood at his elbow. “We must be saying good-bye, Mr. da Cunha,” he began, but: