WHEN Honiton, in the hotel in Cairo, made his appeal to his captor for secrecy, he had no more in his mind than that he should be spared the ignominy of exposure before friends whom his happy temperament had made for him. He had met Jocelyn Upton, had liked her immensely, but had been quite resigned to her loss when he heard that she was returning to England. Had he guessed how completely she would occupy his mind and heart after a week at sea spent almost entirely in her society, he would have been even more anxious to avoid sailing by the Bedouin. Her obvious liking for him, her openly expressed pleasure at the discovery of his presence aboard, her artless acceptance of her own judgment of his character as conclusive - all coming at a time when he had much cause for despondence bore him inevitably towards the rapids over which he was fated to pass. He never had a chance. Nature stepped in and took all control out of his hands. Thrown into her company as he was continually, he would have been more than human had he not loved her.

Jocelyn, on her part, was an even more easy prey. She was essentially a modern girl, accustomed to the study and analysis of her own feelings and emotions, and she, more quickly than Honiton, realised the direction in which she was drifting. She did not struggle, for she had no reason to anticipate anything but happiness from the love that was springing up so rapidly in her heart. She had formed her own opinion of Honiton when first she met him, and had no misgivings, although his past remained absolutely unknown to her. She possessed that supreme confidence in her own judgment which is one of the main attributes and pitfalls of youth.

Honiton struggled feebly when at last he realised the girl's growing influence over him, but it was already too late. He quickly gave up the unequal struggle, content to let things drift, to turn his back on the future and drink in what happiness he could in the little time that was his. In his blind selfishness he refused to contemplate the effect of his action on Jocelyn's future, or, to do him more justice, so

Nothing could have been more conducive to the growth of intimacy than the long mild evenings on deck when dinner was over and the passengers were dispersed. Deep companionable silences in the dusk, broken by low-spoken words whose tone each night grew more tender; long familiar talks over likes and dislikes shared; rambles round the empty decks, ending usually by the rail at some unfrequented spot where one could lean and gaze dreamily into the dark hurrying sea-these, insignificant in themselves, were strong forcing food for the passion that had already germinated in the hearts of these two young people.

Honiton meant it to go no further. He pictured the remainder of the voyage passing in a delightful dream, the awaking from which he was content to ignore. No doubt it would have been so had it been left to him, but circumstances, and Jocelyn Upton, were too much for him.

The crisis came with the approach of the Bedouin to Gibraltar-a curiously impressive scene, not without its influence on events. The sun was setting in a splendour of orange and scarlet behind the Rock. The pale green-blue sky in the west was streaked with

The scene had a striking effect upon those of the passengers who had imaginations to appreciate its significance. It drove them apart to contemplate its grandeur in solitude, undisturbed by the jarring of other personalities. Upon Jocelyn Upton and Frank Honiton, however, it had the contrary effect. Their feelings harmonised, their hearts were attune, and the glory of earth, sea, and sky played upon their emotions a melody of such intensity that for the moment all thought of the past or the future was blotted out for them.

They leant together over the rail at the fo'c'sle-head, and in the exaltation of the moment the certainty of each other's love came home to them without spoken worda sudden mutually - inspired realisation of what each had known subconsciously before.

To Honiton the knowledge brought foreboding and fear, but to Jocelyn nothing but a glow of simple happiness. There was no shyness in her eyes as she turned to her lover, and placing her hand over his on the rail, looked him frankly in the face.

have spoken, but would have been content to drift on, loving and being loved, until the end of the voyage brought the end of the idyll. At any cost to himself at any cost even to the girl he should have lied now and ended everything.

But could he? Loving her as he did, could he look her in the face and tell her she had made a mistake ? She had laid bare her heart before him, secure in the knowledge that his was hers already. He must not only deny her his love and refuse the love that she offered him, but he must make the revelation of her heart put her to shame in her own sight.

His very love for her made it impossible.

The light of the dying sun shone on her fair hair, lighting it with gold; her beautiful parted lips exhaled a long breath of perfect content, and her eyes looked into his with the candour of confessed love. Honiton placed his free hand over hers.

"Yes, Jo," he murmured, and with the words all control of the situation had left him. He had drifted too far, and was now at the mercy of the current.

The rim of the sun dipped behind the Rock, the light faded from Jocelyn's hair, and a cold shadow crept over the ship as she drew closer to the land.

Honiton shuddered imperceptibly. It was so plain a symbol of calamity ahead.

There was nothing for him but misery in this mutual avowal, and as they leant long over the rail in the deepening dusk, no two people could have been more widely sundered in thought. The love they had in common held them together

hand pressed in hand-while their minds were parted by the wide limit of their respective knowledge and ignorance.

Jocelyn was blindly happy, rejoicing in her love and its return, proud in her girlish way that it was she who had spoken, that she had possessed the certain knowledge that permitted her to speak, and free from the slightest suspicion of the torment in her lover's mind.

It was only when she began to murmur charmingly to him -broken phrases shyly spoken, little confidences made for fondness' sake-that he brought his will to bear upon his thoughts, and forced himself to enter into her mood. Then for a time remorse and despair faded into the background, and, living for the bare moment, he let his love have rein and fly to her willing ears.

With every word spoken he dug deeper the pit into which he had fallen, for, with love once acknowledged, there could be no standing still. What could he say when Jocelyn talked prettily to him of the future with her simple assumption of their joint life? Now he must lie, and lie without end-when it was too late to tell that one lie that would have ended everything.

Honiton's mind, as they talked, was the strangest mixture of ecstasy and misery. His joy in her pretty ways, her shy endearments coming with a charming awkwardness from unaccustomed lips, the caress of her hand upon his arm, was blended with horror at his mounting deception and the inevitable consequence.

The worst torture of all was her perfect faith in him, and her pride in it. As the darkness grew denser she crept more closely to him, so that when she spoke he felt her breath upon his lips. It was then that a sudden recollection came to her, and she laughed lightly and happily.

"You like it so!" said Honiton.

"Yes. You see-it's difficult to explain-it seems to give me such confidence-in myself, my own feelings, I mean. If I had known all about you before, I couldn't know how I would have felt had I not known. And I can give you more too. When I give you my love, I give it to you knowing nothing, so it is worth more to you surely."

"It couldn't be worth more, Jo, dear," exclaimed Honiton hoarsely, moved intensely by her words. He tried to say more, but found it impossible.

"I wonder if-this-makes you as happy as I am, Frank. I'm just full of happiness. There's so much to look forward to. It's like the curtain rising on a play that one knows one is going to like, only thousands of times more delightful. We have even more to look forward to than other lovers, because I know so little about you, and I shall be so interested. I don't know whether you are poor or rich, what you do, or even if you do anything. You may have brothers and sisters

I shall love to meet them if you have, Frank."

"No, dear, I haven't a relation in the world," he told her, thankful for something to which he could give an easy answer.

"Then I shall have you all to myself," said Jocelyn. "I believe that is even better. There is nobody with whom I shall have to share you. Is that so very selfish!"

My darling," Honiton passionately.

He put his arms round her, and for the first time pressed her to him. She surrendered herself with a happy sigh, and with her small hands on his shoulders met his lips with hers.

Honiton, hating himself the more as he realised the intensity of his passion for her, held her long and closely, as though he feared that never again might he hold her so.

At last, with a happy little laugh, she freed herself.

"My first kiss!" she said softly. "I almost grudge the loss of it. I can never have it again. Now I must go. I want to go and think of it all while it is all so fresh and new. Good-bye, Frank, dear."

She, the happiest of girls, slipped away in the darkness, and left him, surely the most miserable of men, to brood

There was no way out except the one that he knew he had not the courage to take-to tell her the truth. He could not, yet he knew that she must learn it in the end. In the few days to come, while yet she remained in ignorance, he could have no joy in the love she offered him so freely, he could have nothing but an overwhelming remorse gnawing unceasingly at his consciencefor a conscience he had.

Had he been of the stuff that suicides are made from, the black rushing water towards which his hopeless eyes stared would undoubtedly have solved his problem; but he was of a type to whom that way out would not even

occur.

When the passengers came on deck next morning, Gibraltar was already far behind, and the Bedouin was steaming along the coast of Spain in a warm brilliant sunshine. There was a little pleasant excitement over the distribution of the mails that had been taken aboard, and some inevitable disappointment over the inequality of their allotment. Captain Spedley had fulfilled his promise that there should be no unauthorised communication with the shore, and had

even satisfied Sir Evan Pilth that his wife's jewels could not possibly have left the ship.

The last stage of the voyage had commenced.

The deck was more deserted than usual that morning when breakfast was over, for those who had many letters from home remained below to read them at their leisure.

Peter Brown was not troubled with much correspondence. One official communication from headquarters acknowledging receipt of his announcement of