"You know one?"

"Yes," still hesitating, "I know ONE."

She seemed about to say more, her lips had already opened,
when suddenly the dull raucous blast of the foghorn (they
used a raucous one on this ship on purpose) cut the night
air. Wet fog rolled in about them, wetting everything.

The girl shivered.

"I must go," she said; "good night."

For a moment de Vere was about to detain her. The wild
thought leaped to his mind to ask her her name or at
least her mother's. With a powerful effort he checked
himself.

"Good night," he said.

She was gone.



CHAPTER II

Limits of space forbid the insertion of the whole of this
chapter. Its opening contains one of the most vivid
word-pictures of the inside of an American customs house