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Kinney paused dramatically and frowned.

“Well,” I asked, “what of it?”

“What of it?” he cried. He exclaimed aloud with pity and impatience.

“No wonder,” he cried, “you never have adventures. Why, it’s plain as print. They are criminals escaping. The Englishman certainly is escaping.”

I was concerned only for the lovely lady, but I asked: “You mean the Irishman called Stumps?”

“Stumps!” exclaimed Kinney. “What a strange name. Too strange to be true. It’s an alias!” I was incensed that Kinney should charge the friends of the lovely lady with being criminals. Had it been any one else I would have at once resented it, but to be angry with Kinney is difficult. I could not help but remember that he is the slave of his own imagination. It plays tricks and runs away with him. And if it leads him to believe innocent people are criminals, it also leads him to believe that every woman in the Subway to whom he gives his seat is a great lady, a leader of society on her way to work in the slums.

“Joe!” I protested. “Those men aren’t criminals. I talked to that Irishman, and he hasn’t sense enough to be a criminal.”

“The railroads are watched,” repeated Kinney. “Do HONEST men care a darn whether the railroad is watched or not? Do you care? Do I care? And did you notice how angry the American got when he found Stumps talking with you?”

I had noticed it; and I also recalled the fact that Stumps had said to the lovely lady: “He told me I could come on deck as soon as we started.”

The words seemed to bear out what Kinney claimed he had overheard. But not wishing to encourage him, of what I had heard I said nothing.

“He may be dodging a summons,” I suggested. “He is wanted, probably, only as a witness. It might be a civil suit, or his chauffeur may have hit somebody.”

Kinney shook his head sadly.

“Excuse me,” he said, “but I fear you lack imagination. Those men are rascals, dangerous rascals, and the woman is their accomplice. What they have done I don’t know, but I have already learned enough to arrest them as suspicious characters. Listen! Each of them has a separate state-room forward. The window of the American’s room was open, and his suit-case was on the bed. On it were the initials H. P. A. The stateroom is number twenty-four, but when I examined the purser’s list, pretending I wished to find out if a friend of mine was on board, I found that the man in twenty-four had given his name as James Preston. Now,” he demanded, “why should one of them hide under an alias and the other be afraid to show himself until we leave the wharf?” He did not wait for my answer. “I have been talking to Mr. H. P. A., ALIAS Preston,” he continued. “I pretended I was a person of some importance. I hinted I was rich. My object,” Kinney added hastily, “was to encourage him to try some of his tricks on ME; to try to rob ME; so that I could obtain evidence. I also,” he went on, with some embarrassment, “told him that you, too, were wealthy and of some importance.”

I thought of the lovely lady, and I felt myself blushing indignantly.

“You did very wrong,” I cried; “you had no right! You may involve us both most unpleasantly.”

“You are not involved in any way,” protested Kinney. “As soon as we reach New Bedford you can slip on shore and wait for me at the hotel. When I’ve finished with these gentlemen, I’ll join you.”

“Finished with them!” I exclaimed. “What do you mean to do to them?”