“Isobel, if you knew how you hurt me—” Miss Baring crossed her pretty feet, folded her arms, and gave her companion a smiling glance. “So artful, too. ‘Love me, love my dog,’ eh? You actually took my breath away.” “It may amaze you to learn that I meant to achieve that much, at any rate,” was Elsie’s quiet retort as she turned to select a volume from the queer miscellany in the bookcase. “Oh, don’t be cruel. Leave me my Frenchman! Say you won’t wheedle Edouard by quoting the classics of his native tongue! Poor me! Here have I been warming a serpent in my bosom.” With a _moue_ of make-believe anguish Isobel leaned back in her chair. She was insolently conscious of her superior attractions. Was she not the richest heiress in Valparaiso? Had not her father chartered this ship? And was not Elsie even now flying from an unwelcome suitor? She knew full well that her friend would resent the slightest semblance of love-making on the part of any man on board. Already her astonishment at Elsie’s unlooked-for vivacity was yielding to the humor of meeting such a rival. The Count might serve as a foil, but the real quarry now was the captain. That very night there would be a moon. And the sea was calm as a sheltered lake. Isobel’s lips parted in a delighted smile as she tried to imagine Courtenay deserting her to discuss those celebrities whom Elsie had made the most of. And how she would play off the Count against the captain! They ought to be at daggers drawn long before the Straits of Magellan were reached. Certainly she never expected such sport on board such a humdrum ship as the _Kansas_. Suddenly they both heard an excited bark from the dog, and the quick rush of feet along the deck; Courtenay’s voice reached them with a new and startling note in it. “Stop that!” he shouted. There was an instant’s pause. Their alert ears caught the sounds of a distant scuffle. Then a pistol shot jarred the peaceful drone of the ship. “Sheer off, there!” roared Courtenay again. “Next time I shoot to kill!”— With terror in their eyes, with blanched cheeks, they rushed to the door and peeped out. Courtenay was not to be seen, but the officer of the watch was swinging himself over the canvas shield of the bridge. He disappeared. Joey, barking furiously, trotted into view and ran back again. Creeping forward, they saw the stolid sailor within the chart-house squint at the compass and give the wheel a slight turn. That was reassuring. Yet another timorous pace, and through the curving window they could discern Courtenay, holding a revolver in his right hand, but behind his back. Even in their alarm they realized that nothing very terrible would happen now. But why had the shot been fired, and what had given that tense ring to Courtenay’s threat?