It was with his soul swept by the pain of all the bitterness of his life that Whitridge had turned away from the two men on deck. His memory of bitterness began with Porter Campbell. He had feared from the day, a week before, when the American cruiser squadron had put in to Yokohama that somebody would recognize him. Now at the last moment his apprehension had been fulfilled. He knew the nature of Campbell too well to dare to hope that he would conceal his identity from the civilian to whom he had been speaking.  
Then, in a flash, he identified Campbell's companion. It was Evans, of the consulate at Hong Kong. He had read in a paper that morning that Evans was en route home by the Cambodia.
 
Just as he reached the window of the purser's office Whitridge recognized Emily Granville's maid standing there. The thought seized him that when this ship's company came to put him on the wheel of scorn that she, too, must be there to aid in the torture. He turned quickly as if to retreat. It was not too late; he could escape the agony and the humiliation that he was certain was in store for him.
 
Even as he turned he paused with a new sadness. The call in his mother's letter which yesterday's mail had brought to him, came to his mind. The words were burned in his brain:
 
"Just to hold you in these withered old arms again and press you to my breast as I used to do when you were a bonny baby boy—that is all I ask. I would go through The Gate happy—and with a smile."
 
He turned back toward the window and as he did so he felt the throb of the engines starting the Cambodia down to the sea.
 
A slight woman in black, dark of skin and with her raven hair groomed slickly after the fashion of Oriental women, looked up at him with a surprised but happy gleam of recognition. Whitridge did not see her, although he appeared to be looking straight at her. She paused, where she followed a Chinese steward aft, and looked over her shoulder at him as he went forward.
 
"Who is that, Moore—the one in black?" asked Evans stepping up to the window. "Something familiar about her."
 
"Elsie of Shanghai," said the purser in an undertone. "Sold out and going home."
 
"Ah," murmured Evans with a lifting of his brows. "Knew her from her pictures. They're in every conceivable place."
 
"She has played 'the game' for all there was in it," answered the purser.
 
"Say, Moore," and Evans' voice was serious, "we've picked up a rotter here all right." The purser glanced up inquisitively. "Lavelle of the Yakutat's aboard."
 
"Wrong, sir. Can't be. Why—that fellow's dead, Mr. Evans. Died out East here somewhere. Saw it in the home papers only a little while ago."
 
"He's not dead by a long shot. He's aboard here."
 
"There's no Lavelle on the passenger list."
 
"That means nothing," and Evans described Whitridge.
 
"Why, that man's name's Whitridge—an Englishman."
 
"Well, he's Lavelle."
 
"He was here——"
 
The purser stopped suddenly, a startled look came into his eyes; his face flushed.
 
Evans, following his gaze in wonderment, turned and stepped quickly aside. Emily Granville was standing there, her maid beside her carrying a jewel case.
 
"I wish to deposit this with you, purser," she said.
 
There was a tremor in her voice. Every bit of color was gone from her face. It might have been a piece of Wedgwood. She paused only long enough to indicate that the maid would take the purser's receipt.
 
"Lord, but that woman's a dream," whispered Evans after the maid had passed out of hearing. The purser looked up at him strangely. "But say, old man, what's the matter with you?"
 
"I wonder if she heard you say that—that Lavelle is aboard here?"
 
"Why? What if she did?"
 
"That's Emily Granville, of San Francisco—old John Granville's daughter. Granville and his wife were lost with the Yakutat, you know. Lavelle beat them away from the side of his boat with an oar—drowned them."
 
"My God!" exclaimed Evans, and he looked at the purser blankly.