“My word!” exclaimed Captain Wards.  “I had forgotten there was a child.  She’s not the only one that wants him.  I’ve had a wireless from New York—­the chief of police,” the captain explained to a gentleman at his elbow.  “This Mayo is one of the bunch down in that Stuyvesant Trust Company.  They’ve been examining the books, but his tracks were so cleverly covered that he was not even suspected at first.  Yesterday they found out.  But their bird had flown.  He’s on our register all right,—­self and niece,—­but we can’t find him anywhere else.”

They looked again and again in the tidy, empty little stateroom, as if it must give some sign, some clew to the missing man.  There were his travelling bags strapped and piled where the porter had dumped them.  The steward who had shown Mr. Mayo his stateroom remembered that he had come on board early, more than an hour before sailing time.  Oh, yes, the man had taken good notice of Mr. Mayo.  Could tell just how he looked.  Slender youngish gentleman.  Good clothes, light gray, well put on.  Clean shaven.  Face not round, not long.  Blue eyes—­or gray—­perhaps brown.  Darkish hair—­it might be some gray.  Nothing remarkable about his nose.  Nor his complexion—­not fair—­not dark.  Anyway, the steward would know him easy, and was sure he wasn’t aboard.

A deck steward said he had looked for Mr. Mayo not long before the vessel sailed.  A boy had brought a telegram for him.  But a first-cabin lady had called the steward to move her chair.

The chap said he was Mr. Mayo’s office boy and could find him if he were on the Caronia.

No one had seen Mr. Mayo after the boy brought this telegram.  Evidently, some one had warned him that his guilt was discovered and he had hurried away to avoid arrest.  Where was he now?  And what was to become of his little niece?

CHAPTER III

During the search for her uncle, Anne awaited the stewardess’s return with growing impatience and hunger.  In that keen salt air it was no light matter to have gone dinnerless to bed and to be waiting at nine o’clock for breakfast.  At last she heard approaching steps.  She flung her door open, expecting to see her uncle or at least the stewardess.  Instead, she stood face to face with a strange boy, a jolly, freckle-faced youngster of about thirteen.

“Good-morning,” he said cheerily.  Then he beat a tattoo on the opposite door.

“Mother!  Aunt Sarah!  Aunt Sarah!  Mother!” he called.  “Must I wait and go to breakfast with you?  I am starving.  Aren’t you ready?  Please!”

Anne was still standing embarrassed in her doorway when the opposite door opened and facing her stood the bird-like lady whom she had seen the afternoon before.  Miss Drayton kissed her nephew good-morning, straightened his necktie, and smoothed down a rebellious lock of curly dark hair.  She smiled at the sober little girl across the passage as she announced to the impatient youngster that she was quite ready for breakfast and would go with him as soon as he had bade his mamma good-morning.  As he disappeared in the stateroom, the stewardess came back, looking worried.