the fortune and good luck that could wait on mortal man.

But while all this was going on there was a pair of small black eyes fastened upon him, as his own shadow might cling to him–fastened from the moment Paul Zobriskie drew him aside to converse.

Those eyes belonged to one Tobasco, a Russian detective, stationed in New York, and he knew his business thoroughly, having been intrusted with the duty of watching the Nihilists who were fermenting plans against the empire on this side of the Atlantic.

He had overheard but little that had passed between Paul Zobriskie and the unsuspicious young American, but while his eyes appeared directed in some other way, he saw the well-known Russian Nihilist deliver him a parcel, knowing him to be going to St. Petersburg (for this much he had overheard), and it at once became his duty to shadow this young man and ascertain the nature of his mission, even though he did not know it himself.

So he at once took measures to provide himself with a passage, and going on shore, he purchased a few necessaries which he had not time to get from his lodgings, and he wrote a letter to his landlord, informing him of his unexpected departure, together with instructions regarding his personal effects.

Only a few moments after his return to the steamer's deck, the cry "All ashore!" was heard, and young Barnwell came on deck with his companions to take a final leave of them, as dozens of others were doing with the groups of friends surrounding them.

It is at such a time as this that the feelings of friendship come out the strongest.

Those who have taken passage, even on ever so large and staunch a ship, seem like ants on a piece of driftwood, especially when the number of shipwrecks is considered, and that among the first-class steamships; and when friend parts with friend each understands the danger and uncertainty of ever meeting again, and consequently the partings are more pathetic, the handshakes more intense, embraces more fervent and sensational than they would be under other circumstances.

But those embraces were exchanged, those earnest handshakes indulged in, and everybody not going to Europe was ordered ashore. What partings, what expectations!

The gang-plank is finally drawn ashore, the last lines loosened from cleats and spiles, the engineer's bell rings, and the black hull of the Baltic moves slowly from her pier.

Friends on the dock give cheers to those on board, and they, in return, wave their handkerchiefs, kiss their hands–aye, from the cabin to the steerage-passengers, and the forecastle (those not employed), all waft their good-by greetings to those who are left behind, not knowing whether they may be the more fortunate or not.

William Barnwell stood on the after-deck waving his hat to the friends he had just parted with, and in spite of the dangers of the deep, of which he never thought, wondering how long it would be before they would meet again.

The secret police agent stood near the main-hatch, and watched him narrowly.

Darkness was just closing in when the gallant steamer, with her nose pointed to the southeast, passed the Sandy Hook light, and began to lay her course towards England.

CHAPTER II.

THE SPY AND THE VICTIM.

The noble steamer Baltic plowed her way through the buffeting bosoms of the blue Atlantic oceanward.

There was no land, in sight, there was no moon to light the waves, but their own phosphorescence made the bounding billows visible to those who came on deck. The sky above was clear, and the stars twinkled in the blue above like diamonds in sapphire setting.

There were a goodly number of passengers on deck, both cabin and steerage, and the hum of voices could be heard above the "clang-clang" of the engines, the "whurr" of the propeller, and the long lines of foam which shot away to larboard and starboard like streaks of silver gave food for reflection and conversation.

Billy Barnwell was on deck, and in a very short time a conversation sprang up between him and an aged gentleman, by whose side sat a young lady with a veil over her face.

Her voice was full and sweet, and the old gentleman's voice was that of a man who was perfectly balanced, showing in all respects a person of more than ordinary conditions in life–a refined gentleman.

But in the uncertain light of the cabin skylights Barnwell could not see plainly enough to distinguish faces, although the voice of both the old man and the young lady were so impressed upon his mind that he could not forget them.

Tobasco was also on deck, as it was his province to be, and he watched young Barnwell, of course, and also the people with whom he was conversing.

Indeed, he seldom allowed them out of his sight during the entire voyage.

It seemed strange to them, but on meeting the next morning on deck, all three of them recognized each other at once, not-withstanding they had only met each other in the dim and uncertain light thrown into the darkness by the lights from the cabin skylights.

But neither of them seemed in the least surprised, the old gentleman was just such a person as young Barnwell judged him to be, and the young man was in no way different from what he had esteemed him. But to Barnwell's mind the young lady was far more beautiful and attractive than her voice had led him to think the night before.

She was about eighteen years of age, well-developed, bright and beautiful, and he was not long in learning that they held the relationship of father and daughter; and after a mutual introduction brought about in this sea-going way, it proved that the old gentleman, whose name was Clark, had been an old-time friend of Barnwell's father, and this brought them into very close relationship while on the voyage.

He was wealthy, a widower, and with his only child was going abroad for pleasure; and before their arrival at London the young couple had become more than ordinary friends, and parted there with an arranged meeting a month hence at Berlin, after which they were to travel in company.

The spy, Tobasco, meanwhile, never allowed Barnwell to escape his observation; and when he set out for St. Petersburg it was only because Barnwell was going there also.

He was one of the keenest spies in the employ of the prefect of police, and had been sent to America to watch the movements of Socialists, who were in active sympathy with the terrible Nihilists of Russia, under the leadership of Paul Zobriskie.

And watching this Nihilist so closely accounts for his being on board the steamer where we first met him, and of his sailing away in the manner he did. He had long suspected Prince Mastowix of infidelity to the Czar, notwithstanding the trust that was reposed in him; and overhearing Zobriskie mention his name in connection with the giving the letter to Barnwell, he suddenly determined to find out whether or not his suspicions were correct.

Arriving at St. Petersburg, Barnwell was driven to a good hotel, intending while there to finish his visit and deliver the letters meantime, that, however, being only of a slight consideration; for, although he understood that it was a message of importance, it, so far as he was concerned, was only a slight, friendly obligation in the delivering of it to Prince Mastowix, after which he would be free to do as he liked.

Indeed, his mind for the most part was filled with pleasant thoughts of beautiful Laura Clark, and the pleasure he should enjoy when they met at Berlin, never to part again if he could have his way about matters which agitated his heart, and to which he knew she was not at all indifferent, if she really were not quite as willing as he was.

Tobasco also took quarters at the same hotel, yet so guarded had he kept himself aloof during all the time, there was not the slightest danger of Barnwell's ever knowing that he had been a fellow-passenger, but he never relinquished his watchfulness for a moment, for if young Barnwell was in his