A few days later Mostyn was having an easy time. He was on watch, but with little to do. A notice-board on the promenade-deck furnished the reason for his enforced inactivity:

"S.S. West Barbican. To-day, in radio communication with nil. To-morrow, radio communication expected with nil."

The notice was painted with the exception of the two nils, which were written in chalk. Placed for the convenience of passengers wishing to send off private wireless messages, it duly recorded what ships and shore stations were within radio range. In her present position in the South Atlantic she was too far away to dispatch or pick up messages from Cape Town, the radius of her wireless being limited to 240 miles by day and almost thrice that distance by night.

Peter had overhauled the set, and was taking the opportunity of writing home. With his white patrol-coat unbuttoned and his solar topee perched on the back of his head, he was making the best of things in spite of the terrific heat and the attentions of numerous cockroaches.

There were thousands of these insects all over the ship, ranging in size from an eighth of an inch to nearly three inches in length. Whilst the West Barbican was in home waters their presence was invisible. They kept to the dark and inaccessible parts of the ship; but directly the weather grew warmer, as the ship neared the Tropics, they emerged fearlessly from their lairs and swarmed everywhere. By this time the passengers had grown more or less accustomed to them, but the early stages of the invasion of the living pests of the ship had caused great consternation and indignation, especially on the part of the ladies on board.

In times of boredom, when the passengers were "fed up" with deck-quoits and sweepstakes on the "day\'s run", the cockroaches would be pressed into service to provide entertainment. A dozen or more would be captured and placed on the deck, each having its own particular "fancier" in a miniature race, and it was surprising to see with what zest the passengers entered into the sport.

Presently Peter heard a light footfall on the deck, followed by a distinct knock upon the wide-open door of the cabin.

Rising, Peter found that Olive Baird was standing outside the brass-rimmed coaming.

"Good morning, Mr. Mostyn," she said. "Will you mind telling me if a message can be sent to Cape Town? And how much per word, please?"

"Sorry, Miss Baird," he replied, "we aren\'t in touch with any shore station. We may possibly get the Cape Town one to-morrow night."

At the back of his mind Peter found himself wondering why Miss Baird hadn\'t gone to the trouble of reading the announcement on the notice-board. He was rather glad she hadn\'t—perhaps she had purposely ignored it. It gave him an opportunity of entering into conversation with the girl.

Already Anstey had found out quite a lot about Olive Baird. How, he refused to divulge, but it was pretty certain that the girl had let out little or nothing.

Olive Baird was motherless. Her father had married again to a woman only five years older than his daughter, and, instinctively scenting domestic trouble in the near future, Olive had determined to earn her own living—a task that she had already found to be far more difficult than the cultured girl had imagined.

Almost at the end of her resources—for she knew that she would receive neither sympathy nor help from her estranged parent—Olive remembered a distant relation, a girl but a few years older than herself, who had married an official holding an appointment in the Kenya Colony.

To her Olive wrote, asking if there might be any post open to her in the district. Three months elapsed before the reply came—that there was a warm welcome awaiting her. Enclosed was a banker\'s draft, enough, and only enough, to pay for her passage out and to provide a necessary and simple outfit.

Before the West Barbican was many days out Mrs. Shallop, in one of her few amiable moods, had asked the friendless and reserved girl if she would, for a small remuneration, give her a couple of hours a day for the purpose of reading to her.

"My eyes aren\'t what they were," explained Mrs. Shallop. "And it\'s deadly dull on this ship when I can\'t even read."

So Olive thankfully accepted the post, because it helped her to pay her way; and, even when Mrs. Shallop had her almost at her beck and call, the girl did her best to keep on good terms with her.

It was not long before Olive found out the true nature of her supposed benefactress. Mrs. Shallop was vain, boastful, and with no regard for veracity. She was one of those persons who, having told the same fairy tale over and over again, firmly believe that the lie is the truth. On the other hand, her memory was defective, with the result that very frequently her story had a totally different setting when told a second or third time. In addition, she was bitingly sarcastic, and was never known to say a good word about anyone but herself.

So Olive had rather a rotten time.

The girl was, however, absolutely loyal to her employer. In the course of conversation with other passengers she was careful not to say a word that might be detrimental to Mrs. Shallop. Evidently that lady thought she might, for Argus-like she kept a strict watch upon her.

The Shallops had taken "Round Trip" tickets. These were issued by the Blue Crescent Line, and guaranteed a voyage of not less than three months. If by any chance, as was frequently the case, the voyage was prolonged, the holder of the ticket scored, for he or she was maintained at the Company\'s expense until the ship returned home or the passengers transferred to another vessel of the Company\'s bound for England.

Olive Baird\'s employers had made a heap of money during the Great War, and were now doing their best to spend it. Nevertheless, they wanted value for their outlay, and the round trip in the West Barbican pointed that way. Mr. Shallop was not keen on the voyage. It was his wife who insisted upon it, mainly because it was "the thing" to travel, and it would be an easy matter on their return to give out that they had gone on a palatial P. & O. mail-boat. It sounded grander than the Blue Crescent Line.

By this time the heat was beginning to tell upon the portly Mrs. Shallop. There were actually long intervals in which her strident voice failed to lacerate the ears of her fellow-passengers.

This was one of them. Wanting to do "the thing" and send a wireless message to her sister in Cape Town, Mrs. Shallop was too fatigued to mount the bridge-ladder; her husband had sheepishly slunk away to the smoking-room, and only Olive was available to undertake the commission.

"I\'m sorry to have interrupted you," remarked Olive.

"Not at all; don\'t mention it," protested Peter; then, in an outburst of candour, he added: "You haven\'t seen our wireless-room."

"I should love to," rejoined Olive, who had the modern girl\'s leanings towards anything of a scientific nature. "I always wanted to see what it was like and how it worked, but I didn\'t like to ask you."

Without more ado Mostyn proceeded to explain the mysteries of that steel-walled house, unconsciously launching out into an intricate technical lecture on wave-lengths, atmospherics, induced current, valve and spark-gaps, until Olive was quite bewildered.

"There\'s nothing doing," he remarked, after the girl had placed the telephone ear-pieces to her shapely ears. "We\'re too far away from land. But I\'ll disconnect the aerial and let you see a ripping spark."

"Another t............