way would be to make an end of it at once. He knew he had only himself to blame, but, like most men who have gone to the devil, he held society responsible. The world is without pity for those who make mistakes. The man who's down is given no mercy. They said he was quarrelsome, a trouble-maker. So he was. In all these years of suffering he had steeled his heart to hate his fellow man. He detested the rich, idle class because he held it accountable for his present miserable condition, and in obscure socialistic and anarchistic meetings in the slums of New York and London he had listened gloomily to the wild-eyed orators' frenzied teachings of class-hatred. His sufferings had embittered him against the whole human race. He had fought his way through it all fiercely, because the whole world seemed in league against him, every man and woman his enemy. The only law he knew was that enforced by a strong arm. The weaker had no rights. It wasn't his fault if he had to defend himself. He had given the world back what it gave him and with interest. That's why he hit back every time blindly, savagely.

With an unsteady hand, he took up the whiskey-bottle and started to refill his glass. His back was partly toward the door, so he could not see the front store suddenly darken by the abrupt entrance of four men who pushed their way unceremoniously past Schmalz and rushed into the room where he was sitting. Two of the newcomers were ship's officers, the others were policemen.

Armitage was taken completely by surprise. He knew at once that they had come for him. With an oath, he jumped to his feet and his right hand went quickly to his hip pocket. But before he could draw his gun, the officers and policemen threw themselves upon him and pinioned his arms.

"You'd better come quickly, Armitage, or it'll go harder with you!" said the senior officer sternly.

"What d'ye want with me?" demanded the fireman hoarsely.

"You're under arrest for desertion," replied his superior.

"Where d'ye want me to go?" stammered Armitage, his breath coming and going in short, spasmodic gasps.

"Back to the ship. Not as you're much good—only to give you your medicine," was the laconic rejoinder.

"Back to the ship! Never while I live!" shouted the big fellow.

By a superhuman muscular effort he threw off his four captors as easily as if they had been children, and made a dash for liberty through the store. But he was not yet clear of his foes. Seeing him coming, Schmalz quickly put out his foot, and the fugitive fell all his length to the floor. Before he could scramble to his feet again, the policemen were upon him, and soon had his arms securely pinioned.

"Quick, back to the ship with him!" commanded the senior officer. "She sails in ten minutes. We've just time to make it!"

CHAPTER II.

The scene on the dock just before sailing-time of an ocean liner is always an animated one, full of interest and color for those having eyes to see. The huge steamer, freshly painted, all spick and span, laden to the water-line with precious freight, her enormous funnels belching clouds of black smoke, with white steam hissing from every part of her giant hulk, as if the imprisoned energy were eager to put its power to the test; the air filled with the babel of many voices, smart stewards standing at attention on the lower deck, ready to serve the embarking passengers, uniformed sailors hurrying to obey sharply given orders; officers resplendent in immaculate white duck and gold braid, solemnly promenading the bridge, as if impressed with the weight of their responsibility; excited travelers arriving in every description of vehicle; messengers rushing here and there with floral baskets and hot-house fruit sent as parting gifts; telegraph-boys bringing words of farewell; tear-stained faces smiling au revoir, handkerchiefs waving and much shouting; policemen pushing back the spectators anxious to see the last of friends and relatives; the crowd growing gradually smaller and the shouts more distant as the leviathan swings out in to the stream—all this makes up a picture which, once beheld, is forever engraved on heart and memory.

The annual around-the-world cruise of the palatial Blue Star steamer Atlanta, 17,000 tons, was always an event of more than ordinary interest, and sailing-day never failed to draw a large crowd. In fact, going down to the dock to give a noisy send-off to those friends lucky enough to be able to make the delightful Mediterranean trip had of recent years assumed the importance of a social function. The voyage being pre-eminently for health and pleasure, it generally attracted a goodly number of well-to-do and congenial people. Many of the passengers, moving in the same sets in society, were already well acquainted before going on board, and strangers had no difficulty in securing introductions. Almost as soon as the anchor was weighed, the barriers of exclusiveness were thrown down. Before the vessel had proceeded very far from port, every one knew every one else, and the ship's company had become one big jolly family.

The passenger-list contained many names well known in society. Mrs. Townsend Lee, one of the leaders of New York's 400, was on board; so was Mrs. Wesley Stuart, whose musicales were counted among the most delightful affairs of the season. Professor Hanson, the noted sociologist, was a passenger; so also was Mrs. Phelps, the wealthy young widow whose recent bereavement had made her the target of every impecunious nobleman in Europe. It was perhaps only a coincidence, yet still a fact the significance of which escaped no one, that two staterooms had been engaged—one by the Honorable Percy Fitzhugh, a callow Englishman who had made himself ridiculous with a Casino chorus-girl, the other by Count Herbert von Hatzfeld, scion of an aristocratic German family, who in a newspaper interview gave out that he was globe-trotting for his health. Gossip had linked the names of both men with Mrs. Phelps, and as neither had been at any pains to deny that he was a suitor for the widow's hand, there was considerable speculation as to whom was making most progress in her favor.

But the name on the list which excited most interest and comment among the crowd of sightseers and seagoers who literally mobbed the big ship, was that of Miss Grace Harmon, the beautiful daughter of the well-known railroad magnate, whose début in society two years before, at a splendid ball given in her honor at the Harmon's palatial Fifth Avenue home, was still talked about as the most brilliant and costly affair of that season.

Grace Harmon was conspicuous for her beauty even in a land famous for its fair women. Tall and slender, with aristocratic features and queenly carriage, she was the typical Gibson girl. Women raved about her wonderful complexion, her splendid eyes, her magnificent hair, her graceful figure. They went into ecstasies over her gowns, her beautifully arched eyebrows, academic nose, dazzling white teeth, and a sensitive, delicately modeled mouth, that might have tempted Saint Anthony himself. Men looking for money whispered that she was the prize catch of the matrimonial market, being the only heir to her father's millions, and the more enterprising laid their lines accordingly. When she went out driving or appeared in her box at the opera, everybody craned their necks and stared rudely, eager to feast their eyes on the priceless gifts this favorite of fortune had received from the gods. In their cheap hall