Satisfied that the dark object was a reality and not an unwonted visitation, the lookout began deliberately to unloosen a gasket.  Moments might be eternity to the man below, but Muscovite slowness is not to be hurried.  The yacht’s bow poised in mid air a breathless instant; chaos seemed leaping upward toward Mr. Heatherbloom, when something—­a line—­struck and rubbed against his cheek.  He seized and trusted himself to it eagerly.  The sailor was strong; he pulled in the rope.  Mr. Heatherbloom came up, but his strength was almost gone.  He would have let go when iron fingers closed on his wrists, and after that he remembered no more.

He awoke in a berth in a fo’castle, and it was daylight.  Through a partly-opened hatch he could see the fine spray that came over the side of the yacht.  Amid misty particles touched by the sun shone a tiny segment of rainbow.  This Mr. Heatherbloom watched with a kind of childish interest; then stretched himself more luxuriously on the hard bunk.  It was very fine having nothing more important and arduous to do than watching prismatic hues; his thoughts floated back to long forgotten wonder-days when he had possessed that master-marvel of toys, a kaleidoscope, and on occasion had importantly permitted the golden-haired child in the big house on the top of the hill to—­

The dream was abruptly dispelled by some one laying a tarry hand on his shoulder.  Mr. Heatherbloom raised himself.  The person had a characteristic Russian face.  For a moment the young man stared at the stolid features, then looked around him.  He saw the customary furnishings of such a place; hammocks, bags and chests, several of the last marked with Russian characters.  A trace of color sprang to Mr. Heatherbloom’s face; he realized now what boat he was actually on, and what it all meant to him.  He could hardly believe, however, and continued to regard the upside down odd lettering, when the sailor, who had so unceremoniously disturbed him, motioned him to get out.  Mr. Heatherbloom obeyed; he felt very stiff and somewhat light-headed, but he steadied himself against the woodwork.  The sailor drew a dipperful of hot tea from a samovar and thrust it into his hand.  He drank with avidity; after which the sailor made him to understand he was to follow.

The young man hesitated—­a new risk confronted him.  To whom would he be taken?  The prince?  He had once been standing in the area way of the Van Rolsen house when the nobleman had approached.  Had the distinguished visitor then been so absorbed in the sight of Miss Dalrymple coming down the steps that he had utterly failed to observe the humble caretaker of canines?  Possibly—­and again possibly not.  In the former contingency he might yet have a brief breathing-spell to think—­to plan for the future, unless—­There was another to reckon with—­the woman he had met in the park, whose automobile he had attempted to follow.  She, too, was on the boat!  He had been her dupe once.  Was he now to become her victim?