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rse than slavery--responsible for more crime, sin, sorrow, suffering, and murder than anything that ever afflicted the human race."

"Well," I answered, somewhat amazed, "what will you substitute for marriage, admitting that what you say may be true?"

"Association of two who love, until each is tired of the association, then separation."

"And do you apply such a code to your interest in Miss Madison?"

"Of course; but she's old-fashioned in her notions. Likes to be loved, but wants to be married. She resists my philosophy."

"She's right, you young scoundrel," I said. "Get out of my office."

My anger, of course, has no place in this story, and I soon forgot it, trusting in the girl's nobility of soul; and a letter from Dunbar, the first he had written, roused my hopes that there might soon be an antidote for Lance. It was a long communication, written from Liverpool, which apprised me that he had obtained a first mate's license and was in a fair way soon to obtain command; but the diction and style of that letter surprised me. With all my acquirements, coming of a university education and a daily correspondence with educated people, I could not have edited that letter. It was a masterpiece of English, and I answered it, giving him the news of Miss Madison that he asked for, and advising him to appear.

But he did not appear; and four years went on--years of fruitless suit on the part of Lance, and fruitful pursuit on the part of Dunbar, as evidenced by his letters. Miss Madison remained invulnerable; Lance steadily disintegrated, becoming more masculine, more dissipated, more fixed in his reactionary philosophy of life. He resigned from the navy two months after his return and remained in the small town, except for occasional visits to New York. His father died, and with all the property in his control, he bought a schooner yacht, and invited me to a trip--which invitation I declined. Dunbar had become a first mate, and later a captain of a small bark which, in a letter, he said would sail from Honolulu for New York. I hoped he would come home, for in every letter he had written was the request for news of Ella Madison, and his assurance of a soul-born worship of her. I knew something of feminine psychology. I felt that here was the need of a strong man; for in my few talks with the girl I had not impressed her with Lance's unworthiness.

Lance continued in his reversion to type. His dissipated habits brought him into contact with men who expounded only the physical. He had a fight, in the small town, with a bartender, and actually thrashed the man--a feat I would not have accredited to him. Again he stopped a runaway horse and saved from certain death the occupants of the carriage. He bore these honors modestly, but I could not help speculating upon the question as to whether or not he was drawing upon his affinity, Dunbar, a sailor who risked his life daily in the earning of his daily bread. Dunbar's increasing refinement, as evidenced by his letters, bore out such a speculation, and it seemed that each, without knowing the other, was benefiting by the psychic association. But Miss Madison the link between the two, who was lifting Dunbar up and dragging Lance down, remained normal, uninfluenced by Lance and unremembering of Dunbar; for, in a short talk with her, I found that she had forgotten him.

Now Sheriff Madison died, and as the girl was without friends or relatives, I took her into my home as a member of the family, satisfied to have such a rare and beauteous creature under my care, and glad of my vested power to keep Lance at a distance. But it came too late; I noticed her abstraction, then saw tears in her eyes, and, long before my professional knowledge told me, I guessed that Lance had won.

There was a stormy scene when I met him, upbraided him, and appealed to his manhood, and was met by flippant philosophy, ridicule, and defiance. In that talk I caught him by the throat and only relinquished my grip as I realized that his death would not avail. He must marry her, I thought, and that thought saved his miserable life. He went out, angry at me and insistent that his position was justified by human experience.

I read this to Miss Madison. She was pleased at Lance's heroism, but expressed no interest in Captain Dunbar, the last to leave his sinking ship.

Shortly after, Dunbar came home and his first visit was to me. With all my predilection to think well of him I was more than surprised, and agreeably so. I had last seen him in a cell, a convict, a jail-bird, with the prison pallor on his face and the prison flavor in his soul. He stood before me now a big, broad-shouldered, handsome fellow of twenty-eight, with dark, curly hair, a dark, sunburned face, a cheery, optimistic smile, and a voice that rang with suppressed laughter. His diction was faultless; he had read and studied deeply. He used words and phrases only at the command of educated men. Had I not known his antecedents I would have pronounced him a university graduate; yet I knew that he was John Dunbar, a self-made man, and I approved of his handiwork. I introduced him to Miss Madison. His attitude toward her was that of a religious devotee in the presence of an idol. Hers was that of a woman wearied of life and life's ideals. She did not know him--did not realize that this big, splendid man was a product of her own creation--a failure, inspired by her beautiful face and a few kind words toward effort, struggle, and victory. Dunbar was a success; he had made it so, and nothing could take it from him. But she did not know, and I could not tell her now.

In his talk with me he outlined his plans. "I'll get another ship, soon," he said, "for the owners don't count it against me that a leaky old tub started a butt in a Hatteras gale and went down. Besides, she was well insured. But, meanwhile, I've accepted command of Mr. Lance's yacht. I'll have to study up a little on yacht etiquette, and I'm all right. Say, isn't he a fine fellow?"

I did not contradict him, though I withheld enthusiastic concurrence.

"He'd made three trips in his gig," went on Dunbar, "and handled it finely in that tremendous sea, taking off my men as they jumped overboard. I stayed to the last and he made a separate trip for me, but arrived too late. She took her final plunge before I expected it, and there I was, thirty feet under before I knew it, with long rubber boots on and a long oilskin coat that I couldn't unbutton. But I did get to the surface, full of water and nearly unconscious, when I felt his clutch on my hair. Oh, he's a man--the real thing, and whatever I can do for him while I live, I'll do, and don't you forget it, doctor. I'm that man's friend for life."

I inwardly groaned and changed the subject.

"And what are your intentions with regard to Miss Madison?" I asked.

"To win her love, if I can, and make her my wife," he said, determinedly. "You say she does not remember me--the fellow in jail? Well, don't tell her, doctor. I'll tell her myself when the time comes, but not now. It might hurt me."

I promised, but could not see the future clear of trouble, for Dunbar, for Lance, and for Miss Madison.

Dunbar went back to New York, to assume charge of Lance's yacht, and I spent the next few months in fruitless argument, denunciation, and threat; but I could not move Lance, and I think I drove him to harder drinking. Then there came the time when Ella Madison, the girl I loved as my own child, asked me to accompany her on a trip to sea in Lance's yacht.

"I must disappear for a time," she said, sadly, "and I want you with me. I know I will die if you are not with me, for he is inflexible."

"I'll go, my girl," I said, grimly, "and stand by you. But, God help the scoundrel if things come to the worst."

I thought of Dunbar as I said this, wondering what he would do, when he learned that his goddess was the victim of his savior.

But we packed up--my wife, the poor, weakened, and helpless girl, and myself. We went to New York, boarded the black, shiny schooner at Twenty-sixth Street, and put to sea, Dunbar delighted at the trip with the woman he adored, and Lance drunk and disagreeable. It was an unpleasant experience in his life, rendered necessary by his very slight adherence to the conventions.

The yacht was a fine schooner of about a hundred and twenty feet length, carrying, besides her skipper, a mate and twenty men, with a cook, steward, and cabin-boy. She was well found, in stores and the liquid refreshments dear to the soul of Lance, and well able to keep the sea until this unfortunate happening was over.

I have not said anything so far of my wife, and she has small part in this story. Let it suffice that she was with me heart and soul in my interest for and love for Ella Madison, and our only desire was to help her as we could, I as a medical man, she as a woman full of human sympathy. The event came at the beginning of a gale off Cape Hatteras, when Lance was half drunk, and Dunbar excited and interested in the work of snugging down. He was on deck, and I heard his roaring orders to his men while I, with my wife, attended the poor girl below in her stateroom.

I had seen in Dunbar's eyes the suspicion that he entertained, but had not yet brought myself to the point of informing him. Yet it came unexpectedly, when, clad in oilskins, he caught me at the companionway, and said:

"What's the matter? Is anything wrong with Miss Madison?"

"Dunbar," I answered, "she will be delivered of a child in less than an hour; and its father is George Lance, who saved your life. Be careful what you do or what you say."

The man reeled as though I had struck him, then went forward, and I heard his voice, directing his mate and men. I hoped that his strength of soul would stand by him.

I went below, meeting Lance in the forward cabin. He was half-intoxicated, and I had small interest in his conversation, but he said something that I remembered.

"No need, Doctor, to preserve any evidence of this. I'll see to that all right. Just leave it to me, and she can go on and live her life, and I'll go on and live my life, just the same. It's all a matter of common sense. Understand."

I did not understand--until later, when, having left Ella Madison with a small, crying creature in her arms, I went to my berth utterly exhausted, and was aroused by my wife, who said: "The baby is missing. Where can it be?"

I turned out and peeped into Ella's stateroom. She was sleeping peacefully, but there was no sign of the babe.

"I only left her a few minutes ago," said my wife, "and the little one was beside her. It had stopped crying."

"Go to your room, dear," I said, "and leave this to me."

She obeyed me and I went on deck. The yacht was hove to, under a close-reefed mainsail, a double-reefed foresail, and the jib, with the bonnet off. Forward, the watch on deck walked back and forth in twos and threes, clad in snug oilskins and unmindful of the bombardment of spume and spindrift. The mate was amidships, looking aloft and to windward, and aft near the wheel was Dunbar, staring moodily into the storm. I waited until he stepped forward to speak to the mate, then approached the man at the wheel.

"Has Mr. Lance been on deck?" I said, nonchalantly.

"Yes, sir. He came up a short time back."

"Throw anything overboard?"

"Yes, sir. He had a bundle, and dropped it over the lee quarter."

"That's all right. Keep your mouth shut until I talk with you."

I went below, shocked and horrified beyond my powers of self-analysis. Lance had murdered the child born to the woman he had won and despised. And here on the scene was Dunbar, who had worshiped this woman as an abstract ideal, whose life had been saved by this murderer, and who was under such heavy obligations of gratitude that his course of conduct was problematical. I could not foresee the solution. I did not know what Dunbar would do.

I sought my wife and told her. She could not advise me nor help me. I hunted for Lance, and found him, locked in his stateroom.

"Let me in," I said. "I want to talk with you."

He opened the door, and I entered. He was ghastly pale, wild-eyed--drunk.

"Have a drink, Doc," he stuttered. "Of course, you know that I've queered the case--that things are all right, now, and that when we get back she can live her life and I can live mine."

"You will live your life," I said, "as a convict, sentenced to life imprisonment, unless a more merciful decree of the court shall send you to the electric chair."

"Oh, have a drink. It's all right. The evidence is out of the way. Now, I'm willing to cut her out--to have nothing more to do with her, and she can do what she likes, get married, or remain an old maid. I'm through. I've made good. Her reputation hasn't suffered, because nobody knows, except you, and I, and your wife. Well, what's the use of talking? Just keep still, and we'll go back to New York. She can go home, and the whole thing will end."

"Don't flatter yourself," I answered grimly. "There is a man on deck that you will have to deal with--a man who has loved this girl for years, who knows your position, and who will know of the crime you have committed. You are a murderer, and you will have to deal with John Dunbar."

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