"No--haven't had any chance. I rather expect to find out something by the time I get home, though. It isn't likely that so beautiful a hat will be permitted to blush unseen." His interest quickened. "Won't you tell me, please?" he begged, bending forward. But the girl laughed softly and shook her head. "Please!" "Oh, I couldn't. I've no right to spoil a good joke." "Then you think it's a joke?" he enquired gloomily. "What else could it be?" "I only wish I knew!" The exclamation was so fervent that Miss Searle laughed again. Six bells sounded in the pause that followed and the girl sat up suddenly with a little cry of mock dismay. "Eleven o'clock! Good Heavens, I mustn't loaf another minute! I've all my packing to do." She was up and standing before Staff could offer to assist her. But she paused long enough to slip a hand into his. "Good night, Mr. Staff; and thank you for volunteering to help me." "I shan't forget," he promised. "Good night." He remained momentarily where she left him, following with his gaze her tall and slender yet well-proportioned figure as it moved along the moonlit deck, swaying gracefully to the long, smooth, almost imperceptible motion of the ship. He wore just then a curious expression: his eyes wondering, his brows puckered, his thin lips shaping into their queer, twisted smile.... Funny (he found it) that a fellow could feel so comfortable and content in the company of a woman he didn't care a rap about, so ill at ease and out of sorts when with the mistress of his dreams! It didn't, somehow, seem just right.... With a dubious grimace, he went aft. Iff, however, wasn't in the smoking-room. Neither was he anywhere else that Staff could discover in his somewhat aimless wanderings. And he found his stateroom unoccupied when at length he decided to turn in. "Sleuthing," was the word with which he accounted for the little man's invisibility, as he dropped off to sleep. If he were right, Iff was early on the job. When the bath-steward's knock brought Staff out of his berth the next morning, his companion of the voyage was already up and about; his empty berth showed that it had been slept in, but its occupant had disappeared with his clothing; and even his luggage (he travelled light, with a kit-bag and a suit-case for all impedimenta) had been packed and strapped, ready to go ashore. "Conscientious," commented the playwright privately. "Wonder if he's really on the track of anything?" Idle speculation, however, was suddenly drowned in delight when, his sleep-numb faculties clearing, he realised that the Autocratic was resting without way, and a glance out of the stateroom port showed him the steep green slopes of Fort Tompkins glistening in new sunlight. Home! He choked back a yell of joy, and raced to his bath. Within twenty minutes, bathed, clothed and sane, he was on deck.