“My daughters are Blanche and Bera Beebe and Swiftwater Bill has stolen them and is taking them to Alaska. I am Mrs. Beebe, their mother.” For the moment that ended the discussion with Capt. Bateman. Instantly turning to a quartermaster, he said: “Help this woman find her daughters!” A half an hour and then an hour passed as we worked our way from one stateroom to another on the saloon deck and the upper deck without avail. Capt. Bateman was furious at the delay. “Mrs. Beebe, I do not believe your daughters are here,” he said. “Swiftwater has engaged one room, but we have not seen him yet.” Just then the quartermaster turned to unlock the door of a stateroom on the starboard side near the stern of the ship. The lock failed to work. “There is somebody in there,” he said, “and the dock is locked from the inside.” “Break it in!” ordered Capt. Bateman. The next instant the door flew off its hinges as the big quartermaster shoved a burly shoulder against it. The room was dark. I rushed in, to find Bera lying on the couch, sobbing as if her heart would break. As quickly as possible, I got the girls out and turned them over to the custody of Capt. Bateman. “These are my daughters, and I will not allow them to be taken from me.” “Take ’em ashore!” ordered Capt. Bateman to the quartermaster. [Illustration: “COME TO THE STATION WITH US,” SAID THE OFFICER, DRAGGING FORTH THE SHAPELESS MASS, AND HELPING SWIFTWATER ADJUST HIS SILK TILE.] “But I want you to find that scoundrel Swiftwater!” said I, turning on the policeman, who stood just behind me. “You’ll not keep us here any longer,” angrily said the ship’s master. “O, yes, we will!” said the officer, showing more grit than I expected. Then began the search all over again. The hurricane deck was the last resort, the ship having been searched from her hold clear through the steerage and saloon cabins to the main deck. On the main deck there were a half dozen lifeboats securely lashed their proper places. It was dark by this time, but, curiously enough, there was a little fluttering electric arc light near the end of the warehouse on the dock, close to the after end of the boat. That lamp must have been burning that night through some of the mysterious and indefinable laws of Providence or some other thing, because by its glare I could see a huddled, shapeless, black form underneath the last lifeboat on the upper deck. “That’s him!” I said, pointing at the shapeless mass in the shadow of the lifeboat. The policeman walked over to the boat, stretched forth a big muscular arm, grasped the formless object and drew forth--Swiftwater Bill. “Come to the station with us,” said the officer, as he helped Bill adjust his silk tile. CHAPTER VI.