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“Then–then–I sha’n’t see you again–ever?” Cynthia’s tone was unconsciously tragic. Till that moment she had scarcely realised how curiously strong an attraction this man held for her.

West’s expression changed. His emotionless blue eyes became suddenly more blue, and intense with a vital fire. He leaned towards her as one on the verge of vehement speech.

Then abruptly his look went beyond her, and he checked himself.

“Who knows?” he said carelessly. “Good-bye for the present, anyway! It’s been a pleasant voyage.”

He straightened himself with the words, nodded, and turned aside without so much as touching her hand.

And Cynthia, glancing round with an instinctive feeling of discomfiture, saw Rudd with another man, standing watching them at the end of the passage.

* * * * *

In the dark of early morning they reached New York. Most of the passengers decided to remain on board for breakfast, which was served at an early hour in the midst of a hubbub and turmoil indescribable.

Cynthia, with her aunt and Archie, partook of a hurried meal in the thick of the ever-shifting crowd. She looked in vain for West, her grey eyes searching perpetually.

One friend after another came up to bid them good-bye, stood a little, talking, and presently drifted away. The whole ship from end to end hummed like a hive of bees.

She was glad when at length she was able to escape from the noisy saloon. She had not slept well, and her nerves were on edge. The memory of that interrupted conversation with West, of the confidence unspoken, went with her continually. She had an almost feverish longing to see him once more, even though it were in the heart of the crowd. He had been about to tell her something. Of that she was certain. She had an intense, an almost passionate desire to know what it was. Surely he would not–he could not–go ashore without seeing her again!

She had not intended to open the packet he had given her till she was ashore herself, but a palpitating curiosity tugged ever at her resolution till at length she could resist it no longer. West was nowhere to be seen, and she felt she must know more. It was intolerable to be thus left in the dark. Through the scurrying multitude of departing passengers, she began to make her way back to her cabin. Her progress was of necessity slow, and once in a crowded corner she was stopped altogether.

Two men were talking together close to her. Their backs were towards her, and in the general confusion they did not observe her futile impatience to pass.

“Oh, I knew the fellow was a wrong ‘un, all along,” were the first words that filtered to the girl’s consciousness as she stood. “But I didn’t think he was responsible for that card trick, I must say. Young Bathurst looked so abominably hangdog.”

It was the Englishman, Norton, who spoke, and the man who stood with him was Rudd. Cynthia realised the near presence of the latter with a sensation of disgust. His drawling tones grated upon her intolerably.

“Waal,” he said, “it was just that card trick that opened my eyes–I shouldn’t have noticed him, otherwise. I knew that young Bathurst was square. He hasn’t the brains to be anything else. And when this chap butted in with his thick-ribbed impudence, I guessed right then that we hadn’t got a beginner to deal with. After that I watched for a bit, and there were several little things that made me begin to reflect. So the next evening I got a wireless message off to my partner in New York, and I reckon that did the trick. When we came up alongside this morning, the vultures were all ready for him. I took them to his cabin myself. There was no fuss at all. He saw it was all up, and gave in without a murmur. They were only just in time, though. In another thirty seconds, he would have been off. It was a clever piece of work, I flatter myself, to net Mr. Nat Verney so neatly.”

The Englishman began to laugh, but suddenly broke off short as a girl’s face, white and quivering, came between them.

“Who is this man?” the high, breathless voice demanded. “Which–which is Mr. Nat Verney?”

Rudd looked down at her through narrowed eyes. He was smiling–a small, bitter smile.

“Waal, Miss Mortimer,” he began, “I reckon you have first right to know—-“

She turned from him imperiously.

“You tell me,” she commanded Norton.

Norton looked genuinely uncomfortable, and, probably in consequence, he answered her with a gruffness that sounded brutal.

“It was West. He has been arrested. His own fault entirely. No one would have suspected him if he hadn’t been a fool, and given his own show away.”

“He wasn’t a fool!” Cynthia flashed back fiercely. “He was my friend!”

“I shouldn’t be in too great a hurry to claim that distinction,” remarked Rudd. “He’s about the best-known rascal in the two hemispheres.”

But Cynthia did not wait to hear him. She had slipped past, and was gone.

In her own cabin at last, she bolted the door and tore open that packet connected with his profession which he had given her the night before. It contained a roll of notes to the value of a hundred pounds, wrapped in a sheet of notepaper on which was scrawled a single line: “With apologies from the man who swindled you.”

There was no signature of any sort. None was needed! When Cynthia finally left her cabin an hour later, her eyes were bright with that brightness which comes from the shedding of many tears.