Colonel Spottiswoode had dropped his magazine on deck, and was gazing across the blue waters. His mind went adventuring with Phœnician galleys that once had sailed these seas, the Carthaginians, the Normans, the fortunes of Cæsar
"Cunnel," Zack interrupted his thoughts; "Cunnel, don't you want me to do nuthin' fer you?" The Colonel shook his head; he was dreaming, smiling, drowsing. Old Reliable pushed himself along and mumbled, "I wish I wuz back home, sick in bed." If Zack had hold of the plow handles he could at least run a one-sided discussion with the mule.
Up and down the deck he rambled, desolate as a house-dog when the children have gone away, anxious to wag his tail, if somebody would only snap a finger.
At first he did not see a certain man who eyed him intently—one Gregory Lykoff who had caught the Olga at Piræus. How Lykoff smuggled himself out of Russia would always remain an enigma to the police. But he did smuggle himself out, for his affair was urgent. The government had captured a key to their secret cipher, and the Terrorists had to change it. Lykoff carried the new key which was to put them again in communication with comrades throughout the world. Immaculate, languid-looking, wearing a fastidi-
