Then came running a hoarse newsboy, aproned with a purple contents-bill, a bundle of _Gleaners_ under his arm. His stock was becoming depleted at record speed. He could scarce pass the sheets and grab the halfpence rapidly enough. For where all else spoke of war, his bill read and his blatant voice proclaimed: "PEACE! _Official!_" Again the power of the Seal had been exercised in the interests of the many, although popularly it was believed, and maintained, that Britain's huge, efficient, and ever-growing air-fleet contributed not a little to this peaceful conclusion. The _Gleaner_ assured its many readers that such was indeed the case. To what extent the _Gleaner_ spoke truly, and to what extent its statements were inspired, you are as well equipped to judge as I. And unless some future day shall free my pen, I have little more to tell you of Severac Bablon. Officially, as the Holder of the Seal, his work, at any rate for the time, in England was done. Some day, Sheard may carry his history farther, and he would probably begin where I leave off. This, then, will be at a certain pier-head, on a summer's day, and at a time when, far out near the sky-line, grey shapes crept southward--battleships--the flying squadron which thirty-six hours earlier had proceeded to a neighbour's water-gate to demonstrate that the command of the seas had not changed hands since the days of Nelson. The squadron was returning to home waters. It was a concrete message of peace, expressed in terms of war. Nearer to the shore, indeed at no great distance from the pier-head, lay a white yacht, under steam. A launch left her side, swung around her stern, and headed for the pier. In a lower gallery, shut off from the public promenades, where thousands of curious holiday-makers jostled one another for a sight of the great yacht, or for a glimpse of those about to join her, a tall man leaned upon the wooden rail and looked out to sea. A girl in while drill, whose pretty face was so pale that fashionable New York might have failed to recognise Zoe Oppner, the millionaire's daughter, stood beside him. "Though I have been wrong," he said slowly, "in much that I have done, even you will agree that I have been right in this." He waved his hand towards the fast disappearing squadron. "Even I?" said Zoe sharply. "Even you. For only you have shown me my errors." "You admit, then, that your----!" "Robberies?" "Not that, of course! But your----" "Outrages?" "I did not mean that either. The means you have adopted have often been violent, though the end always was good. But no really useful reform can be brought about in such a way, I am sure." The man turned his face and fixed his luminous eyes upon hers. "It may be so," he said; "but even now I see no other way." Zoe pointed to the almost invisible battleships.