The brighter stars shone out dimly through a hazy sky; gleams of phosphorescence tipped the crests of the waves and sparkled with an almost angry brilliance as the bow of the Suwarna tossed them aside.

O'Keefe pulled contentedly at a cigarette.

The glowing spark lighted the keen, boyish face and the blue eyes, now black and brooding under the spell of the tropic night.
"Are you American or Irish, O'Keefe ?" I asked suddenly.
"Why ?" he laughed.
"Because," I answered, "from your name and your service I would suppose you Irish--but your command of pure Americanese makes me doubtful." He grinned amiably.
"I'll tell you how that is," he said.

"My mother was an American--a Grace, of Virginia.

My father was the O'Keefe, of Coleraine.