Monty Vaughan had crossed the ocean often, and each time had been cheered to see in the distance the long flat coast-line of his native land. There had always been a sense of pleasurable excitement in the halt at Quarantine and the taking on board the harbor and other officials. But this time they clambered aboard--the most vindictive set of mortals he had ever laid eyes on--and each one of them seemed to look at Monty as though he recognized a law breaker and a desperado. Incontinently he fled to the smoking-room and ran into the arms of Godfrey Hazen. “Never mind, my boy,” said that genial broker, “you’ll soon be out of your misery. Brace up and have a drink. I know how you feel. I’ve felt like that myself.” “Did you get caught?” Monty gasped. “No,” he said, for he was a bachelor, “but I’ve had some mighty narrow squeaks and once I thought I was gone.” He watched Monty gulp down his drink with unaccustomed rapidity. “That’s right,” he said commendingly. “Have another?” “It would choke me,” the younger answered, and fled. Hazen shook his head pityingly. He had never been as afflicted as the heir to his old friend Vaughan. Poets might understand love and its symptoms but such manifestations were beyond him. When Steven Denby opened his trunks to a somewhat uninterested inspector and answered his casual questions without hesitation, Monty stood at his side. It cost him something to do so but underneath his apparent timorous nature was a strength and loyalty which would not fail at need. And when the jaded Customs official made chalk hieroglyphics and stamped the trunks as free from further examination Monty felt a relief such as he had never known. As a poet has happily phrased it, “he chortled in his joy.” “What’s the matter?” he demanded of Denby when he observed that his own hilarity was not shared by his companion in danger. “Why not celebrate?” “We’re not off the dock yet,” Denby said in a low voice. “They’ve been too easy for my liking.” “A lot we care,” Monty returned, “so long as they’re finished with us.” “That’s just it,” he was warned, “I don’t believe they have. It’s a bit suspicious to me. Better attend to your own things now, old man.” Monty opened his trunks in a lordly manner. So elaborate was his gesture that an inspector was distrustful and explored every crevice of his baggage with pertinacity. He unearthed with glee a pair of military hair-brushes with backs of sterling silver that Monty had bought in Bond street for Michael Harrington as he passed through London and forgotten in his alarm for bigger things. “It pays to be honest,” said Mrs. Harrington, who had declared her dutiable importations and felt more than ordinarily virtuous. “Monty, you bring suspicion on us all. I’m surprised at you. Just a pair of brushes, too. If you had smuggled in a diamond necklace for Nora there would be some excuse!” The word necklace made him tremble and he did not trust himself to say a word.