the dark, watchful-eyed man--was it pure coincidence?--close behind. The
steward ushered her to a table; the man followed at her heels. I dare
say I glared. I know my muscles stiffened. The fellow was going to speak
to her. What in blazes did he mean by stalking her in this way?

"Excuse me," he was saying, "but haven't we met before?"

The girl straightened into rigidness, looking him over. Her manner was
haughty, her ruddy head poised stiffly, as she answered in a cold tone:

"No."

He was watching her keenly.

"My name's John Van Blarcom," he persisted.

Again she gave him that sweeping glance.

"You are mistaken," she said indifferently. "I have not seen you
before."

He nodded curtly.

"My mistake," he admitted. "I thought I knew you," and turning from her,
he sat down at the one table still unoccupied.

"So his name's Van Blarcom," whispered my ubiquitous neighbor. "And the
Italian chap over there is Pietro Ricci. The steward told me so. And the
captain's name is Cecchi; get it? And I know your name, too, Mr. Bayne,"
he added with a grin. "The steward didn't know what was taking you over,