How could Eben have achieved such an end? It was absurd to seek such a reason for the fatality of his own senseless course. He had himself to blame. Buffeted between the two influences, fighting a desperate duel with himself, Farquaharson paced the deck all night. At times his face burned and his eyes smoldered with a fever only half sane. At times cold sweat stood on his temples and he trembled, with every muscle lax and inert. As dawn began to lighten the eastern sky-line no man could say--and least of all himself--which counsel would in the end prevail. When the purser appeared on deck he gazed perplexedly at the haggard and distracted face which confronted him and the nervous pitch of the voice that put rapid questions. It was obvious that this solitary passenger had not been in his berth. "What is our first port of call, and when do we reach it?" demanded Farquaharson. "Brindisi. To-morrow." "From Brindisi what are the most immediate connections respectively--for the States and--for India." The officer replied with a directness that rose superior to personal curiosity. "For the States the quickest course is to leave this vessel at Gibraltar. I can't tell you precisely what connection you could make there--but I dare say the delay would be only the matter of a day or two." "And for the east?" "You mean back-tracking over the route we've come?" "Yes." "We should anchor at Brindisi at two o'clock to-morrow afternoon. At two-thirty the _Mogul_ weighs anchor for Port Said ... and the Indian Ocean." Upon the forehead of the passenger who stood in the freshness of the morning air were beads of sweat. His face was pale and drawn with the stress of one called upon for swift decision and terrifically shaken by irresolution. Knowing only that this seemed a stricken man, the purser pitied him. Farquaharson let his eyes roam west and a momentary light of eagerness leaped in them. Then he wheeled eastward and the light paled into the deadness of despair. After a moment he straightened himself and braced his shoulders. At the end he spoke with a quiet decisiveness. "Be good enough to send a wireless to Brindisi for me. Please do what you can to have the _Mogul_ held in the event of our being delayed. It's a matter of the utmost importance." The purser nodded. "Very good, sir," was his ready reply. "It may be a near thing, but I fancy you'll make it." * * * * * Stuart Farquaharson's acknowledgment of the cablegram was brief. For the same reason which had made him so urgent in entreating Conscience to take no step until he arrived, it seemed better now that he should remain absent. He added assurances that he had never received any letter from her and mentioned the one he had written at the time of their parting. He wished her every conceivable happiness. As for himself, he would be indefinitely in the Orient where life was colorful enough to be diverting.