chatting with Eustace about the latter's bruised soul, some
rather curious things had been happening above. Not extraordinary,
perhaps, but curious. These must now be related. A story, if it is to
grip the reader, should, I am aware, go always forward. It should
march. It should leap from crag to crag like the chamois of the Alps.
If there is one thing I hate, it is a novel which gets you interested
in the hero in chapter one and then cuts back in chapter two to tell
you all about his grandfather. Nevertheless, at this point we must go
back a space. We must return to the moment when, having deposited her
Pekinese dog in her state-room, the girl with the red hair came out
again on deck. This happened just about the time when Eustace Hignett
was beginning his narrative.

By now the bustle which precedes the departure of an ocean liner was at
its height. Hoarse voices were crying, "All for the shore!" The gangway
was thronged with friends of passengers returning to land. The crowd on
the pier waved flags and handkerchiefs and shouted unintelligibly.
Members of the crew stood alertly by the gang-plank ready to draw it in
as soon as the last seer-off had crossed it.

The girl went to the rail and gazed earnestly at the shore. There was
an anxious expression on her face. She had the air of one who was
waiting for someone to appear. Her demeanour was that of Mariana at the
Moated Grange. "He cometh not!" she seemed to be saying. She glanced at
her wrist-watch, then scanned the dock once more.

There was a rattle as the gang-plank moved inboard and was deposited on
the deck. The girl uttered a little cry of dismay. Then suddenly her
face brightened and she began to wave her arm to attract the attention
of an elderly man with a red face made redder by exertion, who had just