which I prize, I shall leave it unlocked. I appreciate the difficulties you may have in getting an object of art so well known out of Italy, and have decided to assist you not only to escape with it, but at the same time give my nephew an opportunity of showing what stuff he is made of. If my plans succeed you will be driven to take refuge on the Adventure—not by the police, for the simple reason that no police boats will be present. The launches which pursue you, also the gondolas, will be employed by me with instructions to herd you and your party to the Adventure and to prevent you from landing anywhere else.
I have forged a note to my nephew's skipper so that there should be no delay in your departure once you and he are aboard. It is but logical that he, closely pursued, and seeing that sole avenue of escape open, will take it. The hour of the robbery I can merely conjecture.
The few young women I have intimately known are never happy without clothes, personal possessions, gewgaws and such, and I want you to be happy. So I have sent to your hotel, had your bill paid, and your belongings packed and delivered aboard the ship. I earnestly hope that nothing proves missing, and that you will not suffer too much inconvenience. Likewise I apologize for my intrusion, which has for its sole intent your personal comfort.
I have but three doubts about the success of my plans at the time this is written; the first that something may prevent you and my nephew from securing the Crusader's Casket; the second that you may lose it in your flight and fail to ever read this letter, thus robbing me of much of my enjoyment, and the third, the most serious of all, that you will not sufficiently appreciate my nephew to marry him. As far as he is concerned, if he doesn't appreciate you sufficiently to do his utmost toward that happy consummation he is blind, stupid, and I shall forever disown him. A man of his age who doesn't properly appreciate you is too much of an ass to be called a Harnway.
On the other hand, if, as I hope he will, and trust he has, besought you in marriage, I urge you, my dear Miss Powell, if such urgence is at all necessary, that you give the boy a chance. He is a very fine young man from all I know of him and all I have heard of him. I surmise that he is anything but a pauper; but not even the financial side of the affair need stand in the way, for I do now make a bargain and an agreement for your consideration which is this:
That if you, Miss Tania Powell, and my nephew, James Ware, do marry and will, after such honeymoon as you may choose, return to Venice and make your home with me, I shall constitute you and him, jointly, heirs to all I possess upon my demise which, in the natural course of events, cannot be long delayed.
I could wish a legal change of name, but upon that I do not insist, owing to your perhaps natural prejudice against the name of Harnway which has for so long and so unfortunately been disliked by any Powell. But it is a very old man's natural desire that his name should somehow be continued. It might possibly be compounded to Harnway-Powell, or—I'll make the last concession for proof that all my prejudices are done and that the detested and deplorable feud is at an end—he might even legally change the name to Powell-Harnway because I appreciate the Powells as admirable, and honorable, and fearless enemies and a very fine old family. I leave all this to your kindly consideration, in the earnest hope that you will find a way to make one concession to a very old man, who regrets a past feud, and who could find a last and greatest happiness in having you and all your glorious youth by his side in his last years. Youth, Miss Powell, is a very, very beautiful thing and reaches a noble perfection when joined with love. This conjunction I deem the best of human attainments. If you can find your way to love my nephew 1 shall feel that life has nothing more to offer, and I, too, shall love you, and eagerly long for your coming and your companionship. In any event the malice is dead and the feud of the Crusader's Casket at an end. And—God bless you, little girl! To me, whatever may come, you will always be wonderful! Sincerely yours,
Jimmy saw that her brave young eyes were flooded with tears and held out his hands in that great longing to shield and comfort which is ever companioned with love. She came to them and, clinging to him, cried generously, “Oh, Jim! Jim, I never thought he was like that! We must go back to him. He wants us. He needs us. And you can change the name to anything you like—anything that will please him. I don't care now.”
For a full minute she rested there, his kindly hands comforting her until the generous little tempest was subdued, and then, as if ashamed of her weakness she released herself and found her wisp of handkerchief. She turned from him, stopped as if fascinated by something and then moved across the wide cabin space to where the Crusader's box rested, open, upon the piano. It gleamed mockingly in its dull colors of gold as if cynically challenging them to find anything worth while in their brief lives when it had seen so many scores of generations quickly come and briefly pass.
“Jimmy,” she said, gesturing toward it, “you can have that thing. It's bad luck. I don't want any of it.”
“Neither do I,” he declared soberly, as if he too was superstitious.
“Then”—she paused thoughtfully—“we're going back to Venice, aren't we? Couldn't we give it back to Mr. Harnway?”
“But he doesn't want it.”
She took the casket in her hands, leaned her elbows on the top of the piano and for a minute stared out of the open porthole nearest to her side while Jimmy stood ad-
