"Not now, dear. I'll meet you out here in the library in half an hour.
I'll see about the luggage."

"You must change your clothes, Hugh. You're frightfully wet. Send my
small trunk and bag right up, dear."

Like a thief and murderer, Hugh slunk out and attended to the trunks and
bags, watching all the time for the dreaded plain-clothes man and his
cohorts, trembling with a nervous fear so unbecoming in a strong man
that the baggage master smiled in derision and imagined he was looking
upon a "greenie" who was making his first voyage and was afraid of the
sea. Offering up a prayer of thankfulness, he bolted into his own
stateroom soon afterward and came forth later on in dry clothes and a
new frame of mind. He was exuberant, happy once more.

They did not look like brother and sister as they sat on one of the
wide sofas and drank the toddy that came from below in charge of a
well-feed steward.

"Be careful, dear!" he warned, with returning reason. "They'll think
we're bride and groom."

"Oh, dear me," she lamented. "It is almost out of the question to act
like brother and sister after all we've been through to-night."

"Now, tell me all about it. How did it all work out for you," he asked
eagerly.

"Well, it was all very simple--although I was frightened half to
death--until I drove up to the spot where you saw me a little while ago.