at high water that night the s.s. west barbican, drawing eighteen feet for'ard and twenty-four aft, left brocklington harbour, crossing the bar with less than five feet of water under her keel.

fortunately the weather had moderated, the wind flying round off the land, otherwise she might have been detained for days, owing to the condition of the bar. the ship was now making for gravesend to pick up passengers and mails, and thence for east africa according to her usual programme.

peter went on watch at ten that night with the unalluring prospect of remaining on duty till midday—perhaps longer—since partridge and plover, who had bucked up considerably during the vessel's stay in port, promptly showed signs of internal troubles the moment the bar was crossed.

it was not a prearranged case of malingering. there was no doubt about it: they had been ill. neither knew of the burning of the oil-tanker, and of the dangerous position of the west barbican when she proceeded to the rescue, until late on the following morning, and even then they received the news apathetically.

so mostyn just carried on, pondering over the company's doubtful economy, since, in addition to his normal pay, he was already raking in a fair sum for overtime in excess of the merchant service eight hours per day.

gravesend was in its wonted late autumn state when the west barbican dropped anchor. a thick fog entirely blotted out the shore. the air reverberated with the dismal hooting of sirens in every imaginable key; while bells clanging from vessels at anchor added to the din. at intervals the sun shone feebly through the yellow pall, although it was impossible to see twenty feet along the deck. to add to the general discomfort a raw, moist, west wind was blowing down london river, without having sufficient force to disperse the baffling fog.

the west barbican was two and a half hours late in arriving at gravesend. if she were to weigh at the scheduled hour the passengers would have to be smart in getting on board with their personal cabin effects. their heavy baggage had been sent down to the docks and placed in a hold a week previously.

peter mostyn had turned in directly the ship dropped anchor. there was a chance of two hours well-earned rest, if rest it could be called, since he lay down on his bunk fully clothed save for his rubber deck-boots. it was one of those frequent occasions when he could not afford to waste precious minutes in dressing and undressing. he was almost too dog-tired to kick off his boots. he was dimly conscious of throwing himself on his bunk and pulling the collar of his greatcoat up over the back of his neck; then he passed into a state of oblivion, notwithstanding the discordant sonata within and without the ship.

he was awakened by the appearance of mahmed with the inevitable char. the native boy was now in "full rig", a concession to the still-absent passengers. he wore a white drill suit, similar to that worn by officers in tropical climes, with the exception that there were no shoulder-straps. on his head he sported a round skull-cap of astrakhan, with a scarlet top.

"no come yet, sahib," announced mahmed, in response to peter's inquiry as to whether the tender had come alongside with the passengers.

"all right," rejoined peter, as he handed back the empty cup. "tell partridge sahib and plover sahib i want them in the wireless-cabin."

going on deck, peter found that the fog was as thick as ever. it was now nearly eight bells (4 p.m.), and the crew had been mustered for inspection. all the deck hands were now rigged out in uniforms. instead of the motley garb, each man had a loose-fitting coat of butcher-blue, reaching to his knees and secured round the waist with a red scarf. his headdress was a scarlet, close-fitting cap, not unlike the egyptian "tarboosh". this was the uniform issued by the company for "ceremonial", and the expected advent of passengers was a fitting occasion for the display.

three short blasts close alongside brought the officer of the watch to the end of the bridge.

"tender alongside, sir," he announced.

the old man, in his best uniform, loomed up through the fog, disappearing as he hastened to the gangway, where, at the foot of the accommodation ladder, two lascars were stationed at the manropes to assist in the trans-embarkation of the passengers.

gliding through the mist like a wraith the squat, snub-nosed tender ran alongside and was made fast. one by one the passengers began to ascend the swaying accommodation ladder. in all they numbered forty-one, mostly of the male sex. a few were missionaries bound for kenya and uganda; there were men taking up farming in the rich lands of the interior of british east africa; mining engineers for rhodesia; and people who for various reasons had booked their passages to the cape by the west barbican rather than by the fast mail-boats. there was also a young man in the uniform of a mercantile marine officer. he was the ship's doctor, "signed on" for the voyage only, thus combining business with pleasure, being in ordinary conditions a hard-worked country practitioner. it was the first long holiday he had had for five years, and he meant to make the best of every minute of it.

there were seven lady passengers. the first one up the ladder was a stout, middle-aged woman, dressed rather startlingly for a trip on a tender in a fog. her travelling-costume was certainly of good material but too vivid in colour for a woman of her age and build.

mostyn, standing a few feet from the head of the accommodation ladder, watched her curiously. at one time she might have been good-looking. a perpetual sneer was on her face. she looked a woman who was habitually peevish and vile-tempered. even as she came up the ladder she was complaining in a loud, high-pitched voice to someone following her—her husband apparently.

"bet she's a tartar," thought peter, and turned his attention to the next newcomer—a red-faced, sheepish-looking man, who, judging by his obvious bewilderment, had set foot for the first time upon a craft larger than a coastal pleasure steamer. mostyn put him down as a country innkeeper, since he bore a strong resemblance to the host of the "blue cow" at trentham regis.

after that the crowd on the gangway thickened, the swaying ladder creaking and groaning under the weight of this queue of humanity. there were old men, young men; prosperous-looking men, poor-looking men; men with jovial lightheartedness written large upon their faces; others looking woebegone and dejected, as if regretting the past and dreading the future. there were men who might have been chosen as models in the r?le of adonis; others who outvied in features the deepest adelphi villain. amongst the last of the arriving passengers came a girl of about nineteen or twenty.

she was slim and petite. although wearing a serviceable raincoat she carried herself gracefully, holding but lightly to the handrail of the ladder. mostyn noticed that her moist hair was of a rich, brownish hue, her features finely modelled. her eyes were of a deep grey hue, beneath a pair of evenly arched eyebrows.

in spite of the clammy fog her cheeks shone with the glow of youth—a healthy glow that told unfailingly of an active, outdoor life.

"jolly pretty girl, that," commented peter, communing with his own thoughts.

the very last passenger to come over the side—peter paid no attention to him—was a young, athletic man carrying a travel-worn leather portmanteau. with the air of one accustomed to life on shipboard he stepped briskly off the end of the gangplank and made straight for the saloon.

on the passenger list he appeared as william porter, of durban. not one of the west barbican's officers realized what viper the good ship was cherishing in her bosom; for in berlin william porter would have answered readily and truthfully to the name of ludwig schoeffer.