"What a flirt that girl is," thought Mrs. Pellypop, as she looked after the young lady; "I'm sure I don't know what the world is coming to; I never flirted," and to Mrs. Pellypop's credit, it must be said, she never had, but then, as Rochefoucauld remarks, some women are safe because nobody seeks after them. When Ronald emerged from his cabin in evening dress, he was caught at the foot of the stairs by Pat, who, in company with a few convivial spirits, was having a sherry and bitters. "Come and have something to drink after all your labours," he said, in a hospitable manner; "anything new about the affair?" "No, I don't think so," replied Ronald sadly; "poor Ventin! To think he was so jolly last night and now dead." "Do you think the person who killed him is on board?" asked Pat, confidentially. "No I don't," retorted Ronald, decisively; "I believe she's to be found at Malta, and I'll hunt her down and punish her somehow." "Why?" "Because I liked Ventin--he had a miserable life, and a miserable end, and a wicked woman like that wife of his is not fit to live." "Stop a bit old boy," observed Pat, coolly, "you haven't brought the crime home to her yet." "But I will," reiterated Monteith, doggedly; "I'm sure it's she, and if it isn't, I'll make it my business in life to find out who is the criminal." "I say Monteith," said Bentley, a vacuous-looking youth with no brains and lots of money, "Ventin's place was next to you at table--who are they going to put there?" "I don't know and I don't care," growled Ronald, savagely turning away, cursing Mr. Bentley under his breath for his callous way of speaking. "Seems cut up," lisped Bentley, putting up his eye-glass in nowise disturbed. "Well, it's no joke having a fellow you like murdered," said Pat, finishing his sherry; "and Ventin was a good sort anyhow." Then they all commenced talking again about the mystery till Pat grew weary of the discussion, and went on deck, where he found Ronald leaning over the side looking moodily at the water. "Well old chap," said Pat, slapping him on the shoulder, "don't take it so much to heart." "It wasn't that," replied Monteith; "I was thinking how we could find out his real name." "Why, wasn't it Ventin?" "He said it wasn't." "Search his baggage." "That's been done, but without result--all his linen is marked L. V., all his letters directed to Lionel Ventin, in fact, it's the only name that can be found." "Then it must be his real name," asserted Pat. "Not necessarily; he told me he changed his name, so he evidently did it thoroughly." "Any crest--that might give a clue?" "No, nothing." "Oh! it seems a deuce of a muddle. Hullo, there's the dinner bell--come down old boy, I'm starving."