"It is true, Mr. Turner."

He took the handkerchief away and looked to see if the bleeding had

stopped. I believe he intended to impress us both with his coolness,

but it was an unfortunate attempt. His lips, relieved of the pressure,

were twitching; his nerveless fingers could hardly refold the

handkerchief.

"Wh-why was I not--called at once?" he demanded.

"I notified you. You were--you must have gone to sleep again."

"I don't believe you called me. You're--lying, aren't you?" He

got up, steadying himself by the wall, and swaying dizzily to the

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motion of the ship. "You shut me off down here, and then run things

your own damned way." He turned on Miss Lee. "Where's Helen?"

"In her room, Marsh. She has one of her headaches. Please don't

disturb her."

"Where's Williams?" He turned to me.

"I can get him for you."

"Tell him to bring me a highball. My mouth's sticky." He ran his

tongue over his dry lips. "And--take a message from me to

Richardson--" He stopped, startled. Indeed, Miss Lee and I had

both started. "To who's running the boat, anyhow? Singleton?"

"Mr. Singleton is a prisoner in the forward house," I said gravely.

The effect of this was astonishing. He stared at us both, and,

finding corroboration in Miss Lee's face, his own took on an instant

expression of relief. He dropped to the side of the bed, and his

color came slowly back. He even smiled--a crafty grin that was

inexpressibly horrible.

"Singleton!" he said. "Why do they--how do they know it was he?"

"He had quarreled with the captain last night, and he was on duty

at the time of the when the thing happened. The man at the wheel

claims to have seen him in the chartroom just before, and there was

other evidence, I believe. The lookout saw him forward, with

something--possibly the axe. Not decisive, of course, but enough

to justify putting him in irons. Somebody did it, and the murderer

is on board, Mr. Turner."

His grin had faded, but the crafty look in his pale-blue eyes

remained.

"The chart-room was dark. How could the steersman--" He checked

himself abruptly, and looked at us both quickly. "Where are--they?"

he asked in a different tone.

"On deck."

"We can't keep them in this weather."

"We must," I said. "We will have to get to the nearest port as

quickly as we can, and surrender ourselves and the bodies. This

thing will have to be sifted to the bottom, Mr. Turner. The

innocent must not suffer for the guilty, and every one on the ship

is under suspicion."

He fell into a passion at that, insisting that the bodies be buried

at once, asserting his ownership of the vessel as his authority,

demanding to know what I, a forecastle hand, had to say about it,

flinging up and down the small room, showering me with invective and

threats, and shoving Miss Lee aside when she laid a calming hand on

his arm. The cut on his chin was bleeding again, adding to his wild

and sinister expression. He ended by demanding Williams.




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