“And you strung him along, all right, didn’t you? You would, of course!” He paused, then went on. “Well,” he remarked; “I don’t reckon it makes no difference. They won’t be suspecting a fishing schooner of any allusions, and they won’t be aggravatin’ us none. They’ll be keepin’ their optics trained on the yacht circumspectious. We can slip out easy. Is it a go?” Florence held out her hand. “It’s a go,” she agreed. “More! I’ll help you to get away. I’ll fix things so that the yacht won’t have any time to bother us. Yes, it’s a go. And now----” Swiftly Florence opened the book that lay in her lap and ripped out the flyleaf with its princely inscription. Swiftly she tore it into tiny fragments and tossed it to the breeze that sang through the rigging. “There!” she cried, as the bits besprinkled the water. “That’s the end of the Princess Yves Napraxine. It’s a go.” “The Princess which?” “Somebody you never heard of. A bird in the bush. A dream of the impossible. A romance from the _Chambermaid’s Own_. Let her go. I’ll be ready when you are.” CHAPTER SIXTEEN That night the wreck was found. Seated in the cabin, close beside the telephone that led over the side down to the divers toiling beneath the darkening water, Caruth received the thrilling news. Instantly hoarse orders rang through the ship, and the crew sprang to their stations. The furnace doors were flung open and brawny stokers hurled coal upon the banked fires until the hiss of steam told that the _Sea Spume_ was ready to race for the open sea the moment the gold was on board. Below, the divers were picking their way over the sunken hull, seeking the storage place of the treasure. Above, at the telephones, stood Caruth and Marie Fitzhugh, cheeks flushed and eyes a-sparkle. “At last! At last!” breathed the girl; and “At last! At last!” echoed Caruth. His tones penetrated to the girl’s consciousness, and she blushed brightly. In the triumph of her cause, she had forgotten that Caruth’s object and hers were not the same. She blushed, but she did not draw away. After all, if she were fated to give herself for Russia, to sell herself to Caruth in return for his help in the cause of freedom, the sacrifice would not be so very hard. Indeed, it might not be hard at all. If policy were to govern her mating, this clean-limbed, clean-thinking young American would be a better mate than many a one who had sought her in the past. The Brotherhood must decide; she had sworn herself body and soul to its orders; but she found herself suddenly hoping that the Brotherhood might find Caruth’s claims worthy. Smilingly she looked into the young man’s eyes. “Not yet,” she murmured. “Not yet. We are not out of the woods yet, and until we are you must remember your promise.” “My promise?” “To give all your thoughts to the business in hand. Not to make love to me. Not to----”