The Widow's Cruise

HE liner Bosphorus, after a comfortable nap of some eight days alongside the company's wharf at the west end of one of New York's methodically numbered streets, was making a reluctant effort to tear herself from a hospitable continent and face an unfriendly ocean on another voyage to Liverpool.

Suddenly, there was a swirl and an eddy amid the crowd upon the wharf. Down a line of people, there sped a woman—a young woman.

Passengers hanging over the rail regarded her progress with interest. They were chiefly males—their wives were down below, engaged in the hopeless task of endeavoring to intimidate stewardesses—and the trim figure and flying feet of the girl—she was little more—attracted their untrammeled admiration. The babble of good-bys ceased, and the storm of waving hats and sticks subsided.

The girl dashed up the gang plank in the very nick of time. In another moment it would have been withdrawn.

A sandy-haired man, in a Harris tweed suit, stretched out a hand to help her, in accents which Harry Lauder might have envied:

“Hey, lassie! Loup!”

And: so the girl managed to sail on the Bosphorus.

The status of the purser on board an ocean-going passenger steamer varies inversely with the social proclivities of the captain. If that potentate includes among his characteristics a fondness for light conversation and female society, he gathers together the élite of the passengers at his own table at dinner, and holds levees on the upper bridge in the afternoons; with the result that the purser's opportunities of making himself agreeable are limited to changing greenbacks for sovereigns, and receiving complaints about the quality of the wine. Should the captain, however, chance to be a member of that unaccountable but numerous class of master mariner which objects to being asked ridiculous questions as to what is likely to happen during the voyage, or grows restive at meal times under inquiries as to whether he has been shipwrecked before, or ever seen the sea serpent, then he remains aloft, in some windy and storm-beaten eyrie of his own, descending at intervals to consume furtive chops in his own cabin, and the purser reigns in his stead.

Mr. Percy Chubb, purser of the Bosphorus—“Percy the Purser” he was usually called by the habitués of the route—was a prominent figure on board that vessel, for the captain was of a retiring nature, and Percy was eminently the reverse. He it was to whose table important or pernickety passengers were assigned, who organized the daily sweepstake on the ship's run, who supplied incorrect information to lady passengers concerning the direction of the wind and the movements of the heavenly bodies, and decided which of the clergy present on board was most worthy to conduct divine service on the Sabbath.

But his specialty was perhaps the protection of the young and fair. It was his custom every voyage to pick out the most attractive damsel on the ship, and exert himself to deliver her from solitude and ennui—misfortunes to which it is well known that attractive damsels on board ship are specially liable.

On this occasion, he had not far to seek. When the passengers took their places at dinner on the first evening out, he at once noticed the trusting blue eyes and fresh complexion of the heroine of the scene on the wharf that afternoon. He observed further, with disapproval, that the chief steward had placed her at the captain's table, where she was already enduring the open advances of an enterprising citizen of the United States of America. Four places farther down the table, dumb but determined devotion imprinted upon his features, sat the Scottish gentleman who had been the accessory to the lady's embarkation. His name, as revealed by the passenger list, was James Pettigrew, of Strathbungo, near Glasgow. The girl was entered as Mrs. Lollie P. Link, of New Marathon, Pa. Whether wife, widow, or divoreée was as yet undetermined.

Mr. Chubb took the field next morning. By the effective, if unsportsmanlike, device of carrying off Mrs. Link to view portions of the ship not accessible to ordinary passengers, he outdistanced his rivals from the start, and so well did his cause prosper that by high noon he found himself in a state of comfortable complacency. Mrs. Link, whose liquid, almost tearful, eyes rarely left his face as he escorted her from wonder to wonder, and incorrectly explained the mechanism of the dynamo and the cold-storage plant, was evidently what vulgar students of femininity term a “clinger”; and Mr. Chubb, who rather relished being clung to than otherwise, felt that he was in for a pleasant voyage. He was forty-three, with a flabby red face and protuberant blue eyes. From the gallantry of his bearing, it would have been hard to believe—in fact, very few passengers found it out at all—that he possessed a wife and five children.

Mrs. Link, it appeared, was traveling in charge of the captain, having been confided to his care by an anxious uncle and aunt in the aforesaid New Marathon, in distant Pennsylvania. Further tactful pressure on the part of the purser elicited the intelligence that she had been married at twenty, widowed at twenty-one, and had continued in that state for two years.

Mrs. Lollie also informed him that she had no parents, very few friends—a slight pause—and was now on her way to England to reside with a married sister, who lived at a place called Croydon. Did Mr. Chubb know Croydon? Was it a live place? Had a girl a chance to be gay there? Could she get around to parties, at all? Did Mr. Chubb live in the vicinity? If not, had he friends there? Mr. Chubb, whose wife and family dwelt in the outskirts of Birkenhead, changed the subject, and suggested that Mrs. Link might be more comfortable at his table in the saloon than at the captain's. The lady acquiesced—acquiescence might be described as her forte—and the second evening of her voyage saw her reft from a not altogether inconsolable captain, and confided to the assiduous chaperonage of Percy the Purser.

Not that the marine Adonis was left in undisputed possession of the field. There were many others who “also ran,” as they say in the sporting papers.

Among Mrs. Link's admirers was Mr. James Pettigrew, of Strathbungo. His was the most serious case. A Scot does not usually make love unless his intentions are serious, and after two days of portentous hovering and agonized effort Mr. Pettigrew descended upon Mrs. Link's encampment, and, unceremoniously pushing by the others, handed her a box of chocolates which he had been seen purchasing from one of the stewards thirty-six hours before. He then asked Mrs. Link whether she felt sufficiently warm, and on receiving a demure affirmative, delivered a few helpful and intimate remarks upon the subject of what to wear next the skin, and, finally, unslinging a Thermos flask from his. shoulder, offered the ever complaisant Lollie a taste of its contents—some warm and glutinous posset of his own brewing.

Mr. Pettigrew's Thermos flask ultimately became one of the features of the ship. It was the totem of his friendship—the symbol whereby he expressed the gradations of his esteem for his fellows. To be shown it and told its price and history—needless to say it was second-hand, and an astonishing bargain—was the merest everyday courtesy. To be instructed at length in the principles of its construction, indicated that his opinion of you was in the ascendant. To be offered a draught of the sticky mess which it contained announced that you were now of the inner circle, and might count with certainty upon the abiding friendship of James Pettigrew of Strathbungo.

One Atlantic crossing is very like another, and the Bosphorus—she was no Lusitania, but performed her seven days' run with commendable punctuality and dispatch—plowed her way serenely over the Newfoundland Banks, and might have completed a voyage unmarked by any occurrences more unusual than those already described in this narrative, but for one thing.

Modern science, the mission of which seems to be to seek out the few remaining resting places on this globe's surface, and make the same hum, had established on the upper deck of the Bosphorus a small cabin of unpretentious design, from the interior of which there proceeded intermittently sounds which Mrs. Lollie P. Link on first hearing them likened with native aptness to “a buzz saw with the staggers,” but which proclaimed to the ear of the initiated the fact that the ship was fitted with a full wireless telegraph installation. And this officious and all-pervading invention succeeded, thanks to the vigilance' of Pinkerton's detective agency at one end of the intervening ether, and the indiscretion of the expansive Mr. Chubb at the other end, in providing the passengers with a real sensation just at the dullest period of the voyage.

It was to Mrs. Link that Percy, the Purser, first communicated his savory morsel of news. She listened with bated breath and gratifying alarm.

“You don't say!” she exclaimed. “Oh, Mr. Chubb!” Then: “Is he among the cabin passengers, do you think?”

“That I don't know,” replied the purser judicially. “But if he's a regular swell mobsman, as he is said to be, it's likely enough. On the other hand he may have considered it wiser to travel second-class or even steerage. Anyhow, we have him on board, and they have warned us to be careful. There's no actual warrant out against him at present, it appears, but they've marconigraphed us to try and identify him and keep an eye on him in case they want him at Liverpool.”

“Well, Mr. Chubb,” replied Mrs. Link, directing a trustful gaze upon the unwarlike figure of the purser, “I'm not squealing any. I trust to you and the ship's company absolutely. But get busy right away, and identify him—do! I'm just dying of curiosity to know who he is. Besides, I don't want to be murdered in my little cot!”

Mr. Chubb smiled indulgently.

“You needn't be afraid,” he said. “This man isn't likely to hurt anybody. He's no murderer—just the cleverest jewel thief in two continents. If you have any diamonds, though, you had better give them to me to keep.”

The widow's mouth drooped immediately. Who would be likely to have given her diamonds? she inquired pathetically. Mr. Chubb had better apply to Mrs. Bindleheim. Mrs. Bindleheim was the wife of a diamond merchant of Hatton Garden, London, and invested herself daily with a perfect panoply of jewels.

“That woman,” Mrs. Lollie added, “comes on deck every morning dressed like one of Tiffany's windows; and if Mr.—what is the gentleman's name?”

“Mike Tilney—alias Tom Gunning—alias Diamond Dick.”

“Well, if he gets his fingers into Mrs. Bindleheim's gripsack,” said Mrs. Lollie, not without relish, “I guess a few bushels of stones will stick to them. However, the sooner you find the gentleman, Mr. Chubb, and tie a red label around his neck, why, the sounder Lollie P. Link will sleep, nights.”

The news soon leaked out, and caused a flutter of excitement, coupled with not a few unworthy suspicions.

The ship's authorities were not idle. Passenger lists were scanned, individuals were quietly scrutinized, and the inevitable coterie of card players in the smoking room received particular attention. Cautious inquiries elicited the fact that two gentlemen had been doing particularly well at poker. One, a slim, youngish man with an Oriental nose entered on the passenger list as Mr. Gardiner of Minneapolis—had taken a not inconsiderable sum off Mr. James Pettigrew, of Strathbungo, the first evening out, with the result that that outraged Caledonian had avoided the smoking room ever since. The other man, a hard-bitten, gray-haired chevalier d'industrie of the most pronounced type—he called himself Major Polesworth—had been winning money systematically and indiscriminately throughout the voyage, but nothing could be alleged against the fairness of his play, his success being reluctantly imputed by his victims to nothing more questionable than a misspent youth.

“I wonder which of you it is,” suddenly remarked Mrs. Link to her court one morning, as a steward handed round the intercalary cups of Liebig.

The gentlemen addressed laughed uproariously, as they invariably did when Mrs. Link condescended to pleasantry, but without sincerity. After all, they were complete strangers to one another, and—you never can tell.

The widow went on vivaciously, jestingly accusing one after the other of the men gathered about her, but she suddenly broke off to exclaim:

“Sakes alive! I declare! Just look at Mr. Bindleheim!”'

The diamond merchant had appeared on deck, and was climbing with an agility born of extreme agitation to the captain's bridge. There, with prodigality of gesture and audible lamentation he communicated the news which soon ran riot round the ship.

Mrs. Bindleheim, it appeared, had taken to heart an official warning and gone to her cabin after breakfast to make a selection of a few of her most valuable jewels for the ship's strong room. Some one had gone systematically through her jewel case, which had been left lying in the tray of an unlocked trunk. Beside the rifled case lay a receipt for what had been taken. This audacious, but interesting document had been indited—in printed characters—with a fountain pen upon a piece of ship's note paper, and ran:

The captain coldly informed Mr. Bindleheim that the company could acknowledge no responsibility for his loss, as Mr. Bindleheim had wantonly disregarded a plainly printed intimation, hung in every cabin, to the effect that valuables must be delivered to the purser,

Still, the electrician should be instructed to pick up Liverpool with the Marconi apparatus if possible. Failing that, a telegram should be dispatched to Scotland Yard from Queenstown.

Mr. Bindleheim retired hysterically to his cabin, and that evening Mrs. Bindleheim, looking almost indecently nude, appeared at dinner in a scheme of decoration limited to jet earrings and the paste tiara.

During the next few days almost every man on the ship enjoyed the rather equivocal honor of being positively identified as Mr. Michael Tilney. The rumor went round that the criminal was an expert at disguises, and consequently the entire ship's company turned itself into a species of private inquiry agency. Amateur detectives made a hobby of coming suddenly round corners in the hope of catching the thief off his guard—possibly with Mrs. Bindleheim's jewels spread out on a camp stool before him—while others lured unsuspecting acquaintances into a strong light and closely scrutinized their complexions.

Mrs. Lollie P. Link's interest in the sensation of the moment was somewhat obscured by what editors call “pressure of other matter.” Apart from a sort of general sovereignty with which she had been invested by the male passengers, as a whole, she had made a complete and particular conquest of at least four gentlemen, and the finesse with which she kept them all in play without entangling her lines elicited the grudging professional admiration of the rest of her sex on board. With Percy the Purser she was, as has already been hinted, on terms of a peculiarly intimate and confiding nature. To him she bewailed her extreme boredom with the other three.

Her most difficult task, it was plain, lay in the adequate handling of Mr. James Pettigrew of Strathbungo. That child of nature was obviously in love. Furthermore, having realized that the time allotted to him for conquest was contained within the limits of the ship's voyage, he had mapped out a methodical plan of campaign, and with the awful and remorseless thoroughness of his race was now proceeding to put the same into execution. On the fifth morning of the voyage he had pushed his operations so far as to usurp a seat by Mrs. Link's side at table. He also presented her with chocolates at intervals, and took her for a regular constitutional before meals. By dint of methodical pacings he had calculated that nineteen times round the upper deck amounted to a distance of one mile, and he insisted that his beloved should accompany him over the full course morning and evening. He had also bestowed. upon her what can only be described as a perpetual lease of his Thermos flask. The passengers now referred to it as “the widow's cruse.”

Meanwhile, the elusive Mr. Tilney, apparently satisfied with his raid upon Mrs. Bindleheim's jewel case, gave no further indication of his presence on board, and the voyage drew to an uneventful conclusion. After a brief call at Queenstown, where no passengers landed, the Bosphorus proceeded on her final run.

The night before she arrived at Liverpool the inevitable concert was held in the saloon, Mr. Percy Chubb, supported by a committee composed chiefly of Mrs. Link's following, directed the proceedings, which, in all probability, did not differ materially from those with which Noah and party celebrated the grounding of the Ark.

At its conclusion, two stewards appeared with napkin-covered soup plates, and took up a collection for the Sailors' Orphanage before any one could escape on deck. After this, the company dispersed, but as Mrs. Link showed no disposition to move, several gentlemen remained glued to their seats.

“Well, Mr. Chubb,” observed the lady, “how are you going to catch your thief to-morrow?”

Mr. Chubb, who had no idea, replied importantly:

“I expect some of the smartest men from Scotland Yard will be at the landing stage to meet us—men who know Tilney well by sight. They will probably nab him.”

“Well, even if they don't get Mr. Mike Tilney they may get the jewels,” said Mrs. Link. “I guess the customs people will keep their eyes skinned.”

“Perhaps he sent the jewels off at Queenstown,” suggested some one.

“It's not likely,” said Chubb. “That mail would be very carefully scrutinized. He'll have to get his little haul off the ship at Liverpool, or not at all. And as he is not likely to try to get it passed in his baggage he'll have to carry it on his person, and if he is recognized and~ searched it will go hard”

“Do you mean to say, Mr. Chubb,” exclaimed one passenger indignantly, “that we are liable to be pawed about by these ruffians at Liverpool—to have our pockets actually searched?” 

“They'll have to get up very early to find mine,” drawled Mrs. Link, “for I haven't had such a thing since these frocks came in.”

“They'll be careful, I am sure,” said Mr. Chubb soothingly. “They'll go through the second class and steerage people pretty thoroughly, of course, but when it comes to cabin passengers they'll have to discriminate a bit. The company will see to that. They can't afford to have their most desirable patrons annoyed.” He turned an amorous and reassuring eye upon the fair Lollie, who blushed prettily,

Mr. Pettigrew had been taking little part in this conversation. He was usually much to the fore when any chance of setting his neighbors right presented itself, but the present occasion found him strangely distrait. His affection for Mrs. Link was obviously causing him to relax his usual grip upon the direction of the universe.

Suddenly he said in a tone which was obviously intended to be ingratiating:

“Mrs. Link, are you for a bit blow with me up on deck?”

The usually compliant Lolly made a little moue.

“I'm tired some,” she pleaded. “And isn't it rather late? After eleven, surely.”

The hour,” replied the remorseless lover, “is ten forty-three. You'll not get your beauty sleep, Mrs. Link, without a dander in the fresh air. But, perhaps, you are not wanting my society!”

This appeal, delivered in a manner which aimed at playfulness, but struck a note of tragic sincerity, had its effect.

“Well, since you put it that way, Mr. Pettigrew,” replied the widow, “I'll come with you for a spell. Wait till I go and wrap myself up, and then I shall be ready. for your sparkling conversation. Good night, gentlemen!”

She rose and tripped away in charge of the greatly inflated Pettigrew, leaving the rest of the company a prey to what is rightly regarded as the basest of human weaknesses. Only the purser declined to believe himself beaten. Mumbling something about a final glass in the smoking room, he left the saloon and made his way on a prospecting excursion to the upper deck. His progress was accelerated by the spectacle of Mr. James Pettigrew descending the companion, apparently on his way back to his own cabin,

On the upper deck, under the lee of the after funnel, Mr. Chubb espied Mrs. Link. To his unbounded joy she signaled to him to approach.

“Tell me,” she began agitatedly, “what time does the ship arrive at Liverpool to-morrow?”

“After luncheon—about three.”

“Well, Mr. Chubb, I want to ask a great favor of you. You have been so good to me up till now.”

Mrs. Link laid a slender hand on the purser's arm, and gazed up at him beseechingly. She looked very slight and childish in the moonlight. Mr. Percy Chubb's silly, sentimental, but not ungenerous heart dilated.

“You may command me,” he said ponderously.

“Well”—the girl cast a hurried glance round her—“I must not be left alone with Mr. Pettigrew again this trip! He is going to propose to me—and—and—I don't love him—and he thinks I do, because—well, I guess I have been most thoughtless and foolish and inconsiderate, Mr. Chubb.”

“Not inconsiderate,” murmured Mr. Chubb softly, “only overkind.”

“Well, whatever I have been,” said Mrs. Link, with decision, “I've led the poor man on, and that's a cinch. He'll make trouble if I refuse him—he's that sort. He began to propose just now, so I said I was feeling kind of cold, and he vamoosed below for that eternal Thermos flask of his. Here he comes! Don't leave me until I'm safe into my cabin to-night. And to-morrow morning, if you are the good, kind Mr. Chubb I know. you are, you'll take charge of poor me after breakfast, and keep me in your pocket until that red-headed horror has been safely mailed to bonny Scotland!”

There was no time for further confidences, for Mr. Pettigrew and the Thermos flask were coming up the companion together. Mr. Chubb, feeling like a Galahad in brass buttons, tenderly squeezed his protégée's hand and turned with an airy greeting to Mr. Pettigrew. He relentlessly accompanied the pair for the rest of their promenade, the uninterrupted and continuous view of Mr. Pettigrew's shoulder, with which he was favored, being more than compensated for by the grateful glances which reached him at frequent intervals from beneath Mrs. Link's curly lashes.

Next morning the purser undertook his new duties with a thoroughness which would have roused the warmest eulogies of any less biased critic of the performance than Mr. James Pettigrew, of Strathbungo. After breakfast he lingered by the lady's side, so long that Mr. Pettigrew, who was beginning to exhibit symptoms of homicidal mania, was moved to inquire with more justification than delicacy how much the company paid him per trip for doing nothing.

Mr. Chubb, turning the other cheek, thanked Mr. Pettigrew for his timely reminder, referred to himself as an overdriven galley slave, and announced that he must now go and sit in his office on deck, exchanging dollar bills for sovereigns. Would Mrs. Link, he wondered, care to come up and check his change for him? Mrs. Link greeted the proposition with cries of delight, saying that she was just longing for something to keep her out of mischief this tedious morning. They brushed past Mr. Pettigrew, and went on deck together. That sorely tried man, faint yet pursuing, followed them, and took up a position in the offing outside the purser's open cabin door, looking rather like The Great San Philip in “The Revenge,” which, it will be remembered:

After luncheon, Liverpool being in sight, the purser took Mrs. Link to the forward part of the ship for the purpose of exhibiting to her his native land. Here they stayed for close on an hour, watching the cosmopolitan crowd of steerage passengers, who were being marshaled for their coming inspection by the port authorities. Presently they were on the Mersey, and it became obvious to the gallant Percy that he might now safely relax his vigil for a time and devote his energies to work for which he was paid. He left his charge embarked upon a series of tender farewells with other members of her suite, comfortably conscious that these would keep her fully occupied, to the exclusion of Mr. James Pettigrew, until the Bosphorus was berthed.

At last the great liner was securely warped into the landing stage. Among the crowd which watched the process stood a middle-aged, sharp-featured man with a peculiarly quick and penetrating glance. He was clean-shaven, slightly grizzled, and wore his hat at a certain angle. At first sight you would have taken him for an English lawyer of sporting proclivities. His name was Killick, and he was one of the mainsprings of that great organization which has its centre in Scotland Yard. Beside him stood a subordinate, and scattered through the crowd were others—unobtrusive individuals known as plain-clothes men.

The passengers began to file down two great gangways, Killick scrutinized the stream with an eye that took in every face, every trick of voice and gesture.

“Spotted him?” inquired his subordinate in a low tone.

Mr. Killick shook his head.

“Seen nobody like him yet,” he said. “He is a terror at faking himself. I've seen him four times in the last seven years, to my knowledge, and he's never been the same man twice. Well, that's all the saloon passengers, The second class and steerage can keep till these two trains get off. Let's try the customs shed.”

This cast was slightly more fruitful in results. Mr. Killick's eye fell on two men whose baggage was being examined. He pointed them out to his companion.

“See those two?” he said. “Tell Dempsey to take a couple of men and arrest them quietly when they pass out of here. I'm afraid it won't be much good, because they're only a couple of ordinary smoking-room sharps I've known for twenty years. Jewels are out of their line. Still, we may as well go over them. They won't make a fuss in any case, because we know too much about them. Off you go! No! Stop!” He drew his breath sharply. “It's all right! I think I've got my man. I thought a back view might be useful.”

For the last ten minutes, Mr. Killick's steady gaze had been directed almost continuously upon the doorway through which the passengers were filing out to the station. He had not studied human nature for twenty-five years for nothing, and he knew only too well the difficulty of piercing a disguise when its wearer is a consummate master of facial variety. But however carefully the actor may practice his expression and pose, it is very difficult for him to control his back view. A slightly rolling gait, the inward twist of a heel, even the jerk of an elbow, are features which no false hair or coloring matter can transform.

Framed in the open doorway of the customs shed, silhouetted for the fraction of a second against the afternoon sky, Mr. Killick had suddenly observed a back—the back of one walking rather hurriedly. Killick had only seen that back and that walk four times in his life before, but he recognized them. Swiftly he sped after the figure, but in a moment it was swallowed up in the crowd on the station platform, on each side of which a train was waiting. There was just time to note a rather obtrusive coat of Harris tweed and a deer-stalker cap of homely appearance.

“Keep close,” said Killick to his companion.

Meanwhile Percy the Purser had resumed charge of Mrs. Link. He manœuvred her past officious-looking customs men and installed her in a first-class carriage. Having supplied her with refreshment and literature, he next announced his intention of interviewing the guard on her behalf, a form of ritual which no properly constituted Briton dispatching unprotected beauty to a distance ever fails to observe.

As he elbowed his way through the crowds of passengers and porters he suddenly caught sight of the lowering countenance and red head of Mr. James Pettigrew, of Strathbungo, who was excitedly waving to him from the window of a compartment in the north-bound train.

“Could you give me the loan of a railway key, Mr. Chubb?” he roared, as the purser approached. “Do you carry such a thing? Some doited fool of a porter has me lockit in.”

“Afraid I haven't a key, Mr. Pettigrew,” said the purser affably. He was not at all sorry to see his rival safely caged. “But can I get you anything? Papers—fruit?”

“You cannot!” bawled Mr. Pettigrew, in frenzied tones. “Man, I'm wanting out!”

“What for?”

“Well”—Mr. Pettigrew, seeing nothing else for it, coyly produced from the seat behind him the ever-ready Thermos flask—“I was wishing to take this to Mrs. Link, over there. I doubted the poor leddy would be cold this long journey, so I had it filled up with hot soup for her after luncheon. And here am I locked in!”

“Ill take it for you,” said Mr. Chubb readily.

“No, no!” said Pettigrew. “I'll be getting let oot in a minute.”

“Suppose the train starts before you do?” suggested the crafty Chubb.

Mr. Pettigrew glared at him ferociously, and Mr. Chubb's suspicion that the Thermos flask was more of an excuse than a reason for a trip to Mrs. Link's compartment, became a certainty. He grasped the flask.

“No trouble, I assure you,” he said, making off.

“Tell her I'll be along in a minute,” called Mr. Pettigrew desperately, “and that I'm just sending the flask by you in case”

But the purser was out of hearing.

“A parting gift from an admirer of yours, Mrs. Link!” he said facetiously, a minute or two later, handing that never-failing fountain of sustenance through the carriage window.

“What? That Pettigrew? You don't say? Well, that's real sweet of him,” exclaimed the lady, “considering the way I've been treating him the last twenty-four hours. Where is he, Mr. Chubb?”

Mr. Chubb pointed out Mr. Pettigrew. He was hanging out of the window of his compartment, anxiously looking in their direction, presumably to see how his gift was being received.

It was plain that he was only prevented from taking a header out of the window by the horizontal brass rod which cut the opening into two halves. Mrs. Link waved her handkerchief consolingly.

At the same moment two men pushed their way through the crowd and approached Mr. Pettigrew's carriage door, and tapped Mr. Pettigrew's arm. That gentleman's attention being drawn by their presence, a conversation ensued. One of the men was grizzled and middle-aged, and looked like an English lawyer of sporting proclivities.

Presently Mr. Pettigrew withdrew his head, and the middle-aged man opened the carriage door. Apparently Mr. Pettigrew had been wrong in supposing it to be locked. Then Mr. Pettigrew stepped out, and accompanied the middle-aged man in the direction of the station offices. The other man followed with Mr. Pettigrew's overcoat and hand luggage.

Stupefaction revealed itself in the Scotsman's mechanical gait; injured innocence was manifest in the defiant pose of his head; outraged dignity glowed red from the back of his neck. He seemed to be swelling visibly. One felt instinctively that there would be a letter in the Glasgow Herald about this to-morrow.

The purser's ample jaw dropped, and he turned to his companion,

“Wh-e-e-e-ew!”” he whistled. “Do you know who that is—that man who has just walked off with Mr. Pettigrew?”

“No. Who is he?”

“That.” said Mr. Chubb, with intense and solemn relish, “is Inspector Killick, of Scotland Yard!”

“And has he arrested Mr. Pettigrew?” asked Mrs. Link breathlessly. She was a little pale. Evidently Mr. Pettigrew had not entirely failed to make an impression.

“Well, he's detained him on suspicion, at any rate. So friend Pettigrew is Mike Tilney. He's the very last”

Mrs. Link broke in.

“Mr. Chubb, it's nonsense! That poor, innocent, blundering creature! Why, he can't be the man. Run quick and tell them that he's a respectable passenger—as respectable as—as I am. Hurry!”

Much to Mr. Chubb's relief, the engine gave a warning shriek. The London train was due to start.

“All right, Mrs. Link. I'll do what I can,” he said.

The purser shook hands with less fervor than might have been expected at so tender a parting. He was somewhat “rattled” at the spectacle he had just witnessed. He had little doubt that Pettigrew was the guilty man. Killick did not often make mistakes. But he wished to spare Lollie's feelings. The departure of her train was indeed a blessing.

“Good-by, Mrs. Link,” he said lamely, as the train began to move. “I'll do all I can. But supposing they find the jewels on him—what then?”

“They won't!” said Mrs. Link, with conviction, readjusting the strap of the Thermos flask, which had slipped down over her shoulder as she leaned from the window. “Good-by, dear Mr. Chubb! Remember me”

“I shall always remem” began the purser tenderly.

“To your wife!” concluded Mrs. Link.

Percy the Purser reeled heavily off the gliding footboard, and regardless of the arpeggio of farewells which fell upon his ears as the train ran past him, stood gaping in a dazed fashion at the widow's fluttering handkerchief.

The following evening, on the arrival of the day Scottish express at Euston, a young man descended from the dining car, and was affectionately greeted by Mrs. Lollie P. Link, who was waiting on the platform. The man was of medium height, and squarely built. His face was clean-shaven and remarkably mobile. He looked something between a prosperous comedian and a curate.

The pair installed themselves in a swift and silent hansom, and sped toward Piccadilly, holding hands and conversing in lover-like fashion. Presently the gentleman inquired:

“Have you got 'em, dear?”

“You bet!” replied Mrs. Link, whose American accent had miraculously disappeared in the atmosphere of Cockaigne.

She handed to her husband a Thermos flask in a leather case. That gentleman took out the flask and shook it gently, There was a faint rattling sound,

“They've worked a bit loose in the wadding,” he said. “But they're all right. I hope you found your soup hot!” he added, with an affectionate smile.

“It was rotten cold, old dear,” responded Mrs. Link elegantly. “You must have pretty well bust up that vacuum, or whatever you call the thing that you told 'em all so much about on the voyage.”

“I should think I did. You ought to have heard the air fizz in when I first cut the hole in the lining. But I soldered it up again neatly enough, in case they took it into their heads to examine the thing. It was a near shave, too. Do you know they made one man in the customs shed open his kodak?”

“I was so gallantly protected by my Percy,” said the late Mrs. Link tenderly, “that I simply walked through those customs people. Percy just waved them off as if I had been royalty. It would have been safer, Mike, if I had kept that flask all the time.”

“I don't think so,” said Mr. Tilney. “For all I know they had got your description from Pinkerton's, and might have been looking out for you on spec, though they didn't know for certain that you were on board. Besides, I was disguised and you weren't. The great thing was having you to pass the flask on to.”

“And Percy to carry it!” added Mrs. Tilney.

“And Percy to carry it, certainly.”

“Dear Percy!” murmured Mrs. Link softly. “But tell me, old boy,” she continued. “What happened when Killick marched you off?. I suppose you had seen him all the time.”

“Yes. I caught sight of him in the customs shed, and I saw he was watching me. However, I had plenty of time to send the flask across to you. I had a stroke of luck in catching Percy just at that moment; it was far safer than taking it myself. Then I was marched off to be searched. Lil, it was a game! I called them all the Scotch I knew, and generally played the indignant passenger all round. When they had finished and hadn't found so much as a sleeve-link on me, I got sarcastic. I recommended Killick to give up his present job, and put on his uniform again, and go and direct traffic in a cemetery. I told the official searcher that he was simply throwing himself away, and ought to go and search for the North Pole or something else that he could freeze on to! Oh, it was a dinky ten minutes! Killick nearly had an epileptic fit at the end of it. I could see he was certain it was me, but he realized that I was top dog this time. He stuck to it; though, for as the train moved off, and I was hanging out of the window, telling Percy exactly how much damages for illegal arrest I was going to get out of his line, I saw a plain-clothes man get into a carriage at the rear. I slipped him at Carstairs, and went on to Edinburgh, and if ever he knocks up against me again, I don't suppose he'll recognize Mr. James Pettigrew, of Strathbungo. I was sorry for Killick, though. It was smart of him to spot me, and it must have maddened him to have caught his fish, and then found nothing to hold on by.”

“The man I'm sorry for,” said Mrs. Tilney, “is poor Percy.”

“What, that old fathead! Never mind him.”

“He admired me,” said Mrs. Tilney gently.

“He did. And I nearly wrung his neck for him!” growled the uxorious Mr. Tilney. “By the way, how much did you lift out of his cash box while you were checking his change yesterday?”

“Nothing,” said the girl apologetically.

“Nothing?”

“Well, I collected a good handful, but I put it back, Micky.”

“Why in thunder?”

“It seemed so like stealing,” said Mrs. Tilney, with feminine consistency. “Besides, he would have had to make it good. It isn't as if he could afford it, like the Bindleheims.”

“There's something in that,” admitted Mr. Tilney. “You're a fair-minded little girl, Lil.”

“But I made him jump, for all that,” continued Mrs. Tilney, brightening up. “Micky, you should have seen his face when I asked to be remembered to his wife!”

Mr. Tilney stared,

“Lil, you didn't!”

“I did—just as the train moved out!”

Mr. Tilney surveyed his dazzling helpmeet with the air of everlasting and simple wonder habitual to men who are in the habit of doing business with members of the opposite sex.

“There was something left out when women were made,” he said resignedly. “Here are you, with sufficient nerve and savvy to dodge the whole of Pinkerton's crowd at the wharf at New York, even to the extent of slipping off the ship when they came on board, though you nearly missed your passage in doing so, and you can't resist risking the whole caboodle, all for the fun of seeing a silly-faced philanderer turn green. It was damned inartistic, little woman.”

“I couldn't help it, Micky,” said Mrs. Tilney penitently. “I knew you would say it was out of the picture, but I had to! I'm a woman, and I'm your wife, and your wife has had to put up with a good deal this week, my dear. What brutes men are—except you!” she concluded almost tearfully.

Mr. Tilney, completely mollified, responded with a tender glance.

“And now,” concluded the late Mrs. Link, as the cab drew up at a Gargantuan hotel, “we'll go and enjoy ourselves. It's nice to be oneself again,” she added. “I'm fair fed up with waving the Stars and Stripes.”

“And I,” replied Mr. Tilney, with feeling, “find this business something cruel. Lil, that man earns all he makes!”