searched the pier from end to end, but there was a dimness in his eyes and they made no discovery. He turned to go forward and collided with two men, one in the uniform of a United States naval lieutenant and the other in civilian garb.

"I beg your pardon," he said quickly and then his gaze met the officer's.

A challenging tenseness straightened Whitridge. The man in uniform started back a step as if he had been struck. Then, his good-looking, but weak face went pale, his lips parted loosely, and his features became as expressionless as so much putty, under the glance which Whitridge shot at him. It was a glance of but a second. It began in hostility and ended with a lash of contempt as he swung on forward.

The naval officer watched Whitridge until he disappeared through the saloon gangway.

"You look as you might—if you had seen a ghost, Campbell," said the civilian.

"I—I thought I did, Evans," stammered the officer and making an effort to recover control of himself. "I believed—I thought—that man was dead." His voice went to a whisper. "That—that's Lavelle of the Yakutat."

"No! Impossible!"

"It's he. I couldn't be mistaken. He was in the class at Annapolis with me."

"He's a rotter, if there ever was one," interrupted Evans bitterly. The other nodded dumbly. "Good thing he didn't land in the navy."

"Until he was shown up I was blamed for—for his being 'bilged,' you know. But really I wasn't to blame. Some of the fellows planted some beer and booze in our room; he stood mute, but I had to testify. They expelled him."

The officer spoke as if conscience-smitten, but his companion did not seem to be listening to him. He interrupted him.

"It's a mighty unpleasant thing to think of being in the same ship with a man like that," he said very solemnly. As he spoke a shudder passed over him.

The banging of a gong and a cry of "All ashore, who're going ashore!" cut short the conversation and hurried the officer over the side.

CHAPTER III

It was with his soul swept by the pain of all the bitterness of his life that Whitridge had turned away from the two men on deck. His memory of bitterness began with Porter Campbell. He had feared from the day, a week before, when the American cruiser 

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