Braxton Hogarth, detective, member of the Atlantic Agency, in good
standing, now, by right of law and by virtue of his craft, restored
to his freedom and identity, stepped back and was swallowed up by the
crowd.
The great ocean liner steamed out from the port of New York on its
pathless journey to the sunny south of France. Randolph Mason sat in an
invalid chair close up to the rail of the deck; he was grim, emaciated,
and rigidly ugly. His body was exhausted, worn out utterly long ago,
but the fierce mysterious spirit of the man was tireless and wrought on
unceasingly.
For a time he was silent, his eyes wide, and his jaw set like a wolf
trap. Suddenly he clutched the rail and staggered to his feet.
"Parks," he muttered,--"Parks, this ship is worth a million dollars.
Come with me to the cabin and I will show you how it may be wrested
from the owners and no crime committed; do you understand me, Parks? no
crime!"
_Note.--For the purpose of a complete demonstration, two situations are
here combined. In the first, the crime of robbery was committed, but
in such a manner as to completely evade an inference of the _animus
furandi_, although it was in fact present and obtained. In the second,
there was no robbery, the _animus furandi_ being entirely absent,
although it apparently existed in a conspicuous degree._