squadron had put in to Yokohama that somebody would recognize him. Now at the last moment his apprehension had been fulfilled. He knew the nature of Campbell too well to dare to hope that he would conceal his identity from the civilian to whom he had been speaking.

Then, in a flash, he identified Campbell's companion. It was Evans, of the consulate at Hong Kong. He had read in a paper that morning that Evans was en route home by the Cambodia.

Just as he reached the window of the purser's office Whitridge recognized Emily Granville's maid standing there. The thought seized him that when this ship's company came to put him on the wheel of scorn that she, too, must be there to aid in the torture. He turned quickly as if to retreat. It was not too late; he could escape the agony and the humiliation that he was certain was in store for him.

Even as he turned he paused with a new sadness. The call in his mother's letter which yesterday's mail had brought to him, came to his mind. The words were burned in his brain:

"Just to hold you in these withered old arms again and press you to my breast as I used to do when you were a bonny baby boy—that is all I ask. I would go through The Gate happy—and with a smile."

He turned back toward the window and as he did so he felt the throb of the engines starting the Cambodia down to the sea.

A slight woman in black, dark of skin and with her raven hair groomed slickly after the fashion of Oriental women, looked up at him with a surprised but happy gleam of recognition. Whitridge did not see her, although he appeared to be looking straight at her. She paused, where she followed a Chinese steward aft, and looked over her shoulder at him as he went forward.

"Who is that, Moore—the one in black?" asked Evans stepping up to the window. "Something familiar about her."

"Elsie of Shanghai," said the purser in an undertone. "Sold out and going home."

"Ah," murmured Evans with a lifting of his brows. "Knew her from her pictures. They're in every conceivable place."

"She has played 'the game' for all there was in it," answered the purser.

"Say, Moore," and Evans' voice was serious, "we've picked up a rotter here all right." The purser glanced up inquisitively. "Lavelle of the Yakutat's aboard."

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