The Countess Olga de Coude was twenty. Her husband forty. She was
a very faithful and loyal wife, but as she had had nothing whatever
to do with the selection of a husband, it is not at all unlikely
that she was not wildly and passionately in love with the one that
fate and her titled Russian father had selected for her. However,
simply because she was surprised into a tiny exclamation of approval
at sight of a splendid young stranger it must not be inferred
therefrom that her thoughts were in any way disloyal to her spouse.
She merely admired, as she might have admired a particularly fine
specimen of any species. Furthermore, the young man was unquestionably
good to look at.

As her furtive glance rested upon his profile he rose to leave the
deck. The Countess de Coude beckoned to a passing steward. "Who
is that gentleman?" she asked.

"He is booked, madam, as Monsieur Tarzan, of Africa," replied the
steward.

"Rather a large estate," thought the girl, but now her interest
was still further aroused.

As Tarzan walked slowly toward the smoking-room he came unexpectedly
upon two men whispering excitedly just without. He would have
vouchsafed them not even a passing thought but for the strangely
guilty glance that one of them shot in his direction. They reminded
Tarzan of melodramatic villains he had seen at the theaters in Paris.
Both were very dark, and this, in connection with the shrugs and
stealthy glances that accompanied their palpable intriguing, lent
still greater force to the similarity.