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 under the Laminian's gently flapping awnings, smoking his flat-bellied Hondurian cigars, as placid and unperturbed as a commodore pacing his own yacht deck. He accosted McKinnon, from time to time, with the off-handed geniality of long-established comradeship. He appeared to have buried all memory of those scenes in which he had taken such a recent and such an active part. He divulged nothing of the plans which were fermenting behind the bulwark of his low and massive frontal bone. He said nothing of the doubts and uncertainties, if such he had, which were preying on his mind. But all the while McKinnon felt that he was being watched, just as all the while he himself was guardedly watching the other.

Once, as McKinnon stood alone at the ship's rail, Ganley sauntered over with his ponderous and deliberate strides, and joined him in his silent study of the star-strewn heavens. The operator waited, feeling that at last his enigmatic enemy was about to speak. But the gun-runner's meditative eyes remained turned up to the stars, soft and warm and luminous against a sky of velvety blackness. He seemed utterly at peace with the world and his own soul, as McKinnon left him there, contemplating the intimidating vast dome of the tropical heavens.

It was only as the Laminian rounded the