"My real name," Mr. Sabin said, turning a little as though to face his companion, "is Victor Duc de Souspennier. It suits me at present to travel under the name by which I was known in England and by which you are in the habit of addressing me. Mr. Watson, I'm leaving England because a certain scheme of mine, which, if successful, would have revolutionised the whole face of Europe, has by a most unfortunate chance become a failure. I have incurred thereby the resentment, perhaps I should say the just resentment, of a great nation. I am on my way to the country where I concluded I should be safest against those means of, shall I say, retribution, or vengeance, which will assuredly be used against me. Now what I want to say to you, Mr. Watson, is this--I am a rich man, and I value my life at a great deal of money. I wonder if by any chance you understand me." Mr. Watson smiled. "I'm curious to know," he said softly, "at what price you value yourself." "My account in New York," Mr. Sabin said quietly, "is, I believe, something like ten thousand pounds." "Fifty thousand dollars," Mr. Watson remarked, "is a nice little sum for one, but an awkward amount to divide." Mr. Sabin lit a cigarette and breathed more freely. He began to see his way. "I forgot the lady," he murmured. "The expense of cabling is not great. For the sake of argument, let us say twenty thousand." Mr. Watson rose. "So far as I'm concerned," he said, "it is a satisfactory sum. Forgive me if I leave you for a few minutes, I must have a little talk with Mrs. Watson." Mr. Sabin nodded. "We will have a cigar together after lunch," he said. "I must have my morning game of shuffleboard with the captain." Mr. Watson went below, and Mr. Sabin played shuffleboard with his usual deadly skill. A slight mist had settled around them by the time the game was over, and the fog-horn was blowing, the captain went on the bridge, and the engines were checked to half speed. Mr. Sabin leaned over the side of the vessel, and gazed thoughtfully into the dense white vapour. "I think," he said softly to himself, "that after all I'm safe." There was perfect silence on the ship. Even the luncheon gong had not sounded, the passengers having been summoned in a whisper by the deck steward. The fog seemed to be getting denser and the sea was like glass. Suddenly there was a little commotion aft, and the captain leaning forward shouted some brief orders. The fog-horn emitted a series of spasmodic and hideous shrills, and beyond a slight drifting the steamer was almost motionless. Mr. Sabin understood at once that somewhere, it might be close at hand, or it might be a mile away, the presence of another steamer had been detected.