Professor Vixley’s victim had ceased to struggle, and, caught inextricably in the web so artfully woven, gazed, fascinated, into the eyes of the spider who was preparing to suck his golden blood. *CHAPTER XIV* *THE FORE-HONEYMOON* Outward, across the narrow, mile-long mole, the Oakland Local, a train of twelve coaches, swept on from block to block, beckoned by semaphores, till it threw itself with a roar into the great train-shed upon the Oakland pier. The locomotive stopped, throbbing and panting rhythmically, spouting a cloud of steam that eddied among the iron trusses of the roof. The air-brakes settled back with a long, relieved hiss. The cars emptied streams of passengers; the ferry-station became as populous and busy as a disturbed ant-hill. Up the broad stairs and into the huge waiting-room the commuters poured, there to await the boat. It was half-past nine in the morning. The earlier trains, laden with clerks and stenographers and the masses of early workers, had already relieved the traffic across the bay. The present contingent consisted chiefly of the more well-to-do business men, ladies bent on shopping in the city, and a scattering of sorts. Some clustered in a dense group by the door of the gangway, the better to rush on board and capture the favorite seats; the rest took to the settees and unfolded their morning papers, conversed, or watched the gathering throng. The Overland from Chicago was already in, two hours late, and it had contributed to the assembly its delegation of dusty, tired tourists, laden with baggage, commercial travelers, curious and bold, with a few emigrants in outlandish costumes, prolific in children and impedimenta. Another roar, and the Alameda Local thundered into the shed and emptied its lesser load. The Berkeley train had arrived also, and the waiting-room was now well filled. Through the glazed front of the hall the steamer _Piedmont_ came into view, entering the slip. It slid in quietly and was deftly tied up. The gang-plank was lowered and its passengers disembarked, filing through a passageway separated from the waiting throng by a fence. Then the heavy door slipped upward, the crowd made for the entrance and passed on board the boat. As each party stepped off the gang-plank some one would say, "Do you want to sit outside or inside?" The continual repetition of this question kept the after part of the deck echoing with the murmur. Clytie Payson, finding all the best outside seats occupied, went into the great open cabin and sat down. The saloon soon filled. In a moment there was the creaking of the gang-plank drawbridge, a deep, hoarse whistle overhead, the jangle of a bell in the engine room, and the boat started, gathered way, and shot out into the bay. An Italian band started playing.