of humanity, hurried forward and stretched out the hand of succour, and
presently, between her help and that of the bulwark netting, the man
struggled to his feet. As he did so his face came close to hers, and in
the dim light she recognised the fat, coarse features, now blanched with
misery, of Mr. Meeson, the publisher. There was no doubt about it, it was
her enemy; the man whose behavior had indirectly, as she believed, caused
the death of her little sister. She dropped his hand with an exclamation
of disgust and dismay, and as she did so he recognised who she was.

"Hullo!" he said, with a faint and rather feeble attempt to assume his
fine old crusted publishing-company manners. "Hullo! Miss
Jemima--Smithers, I mean; what on earth are you doing here?"

"I am going to New Zealand, Mr. Meeson," she answered sharply; "and
I certainly did not expect to have the pleasure of your company on
the voyage."

"Going to New Zealand," he said, "are you? Why, so am I; at least, I am
going there first, then to Australia. What do you mean to do there--try
and run round our little agreement, eh? It won't be any good, I tell you
plainly. We have our agents in New Zealand, and a house in Australia,
and if you try to get the better of Meeson's there, Meeson's will be
even with you, Miss Smithers--Oh, Heavens! I feel as though I were
coming to pieces."

"Don't alarm yourself, Mr. Meeson," she answered, "I am not going to
publish any more books at present."

"That is a pity," he said, "because your stuff is good selling stuff. Any
publisher would find money in it. I suppose you are second-class, Miss