"Wrong, sir. Can't be. Why—that fellow's dead, Mr. Evans. Died out East here somewhere. Saw it in the home papers only a little while ago."

"He's not dead by a long shot. He's aboard here."

"There's no Lavelle on the passenger list."

"That means nothing," and Evans described Whitridge.

"Why, that man's name's Whitridge—an Englishman."

"Well, he's Lavelle."

"He was here——"

The purser stopped suddenly, a startled look came into his eyes; his face flushed.

Evans, following his gaze in wonderment, turned and stepped quickly aside. Emily Granville was standing there, her maid beside her carrying a jewel case.

"I wish to deposit this with you, purser," she said.

There was a tremor in her voice. Every bit of color was gone from her face. It might have been a piece of Wedgwood. She paused only long enough to indicate that the maid would take the purser's receipt.

"Lord, but that woman's a dream," whispered Evans after the maid had passed out of hearing. The purser looked up at him strangely. "But say, old man, what's the matter with you?"

"I wonder if she heard you say that—that Lavelle is aboard here?"

"Why? What if she did?"

"That's Emily Granville, of San Francisco—old John Granville's daughter. Granville and his wife were lost with the Yakutat, you know. Lavelle beat them away from the side of his boat with an oar—drowned them."

"My God!" exclaimed Evans, and he looked at the purser blankly.

CHAPTER IV

Emily Granville could not have helped hearing what was said at the purser's window. The shock of the revelation stunned her. It seemed impossible that fate could have placed her in the same ship with the man whose fiendishness had gloomed her whole life.

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