In peril on the sea

By Montague T. Hainsselin

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Title: In peril on the sea

Author: Montague T. Hainsselin

Release date: November 17, 2025 [eBook #77260]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1919

Credits: Al Haines


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN PERIL ON THE SEA ***






  In
  Peril on the Sea


  BY

  MONTAGUE T. HAINSSELIN

  AUTHOR OF
  _"IN THE NORTHERN MISTS," ETC._



  HODDER AND STOUGHTON
  LONDON NEW YORK TORONTO




  _THE SAME AUTHOR_

  IN THE NORTHERN MISTS
  GRAND FLEET DAYS
  NAVAL INTELLIGENCE
  THE CURTAIN OF STEEL




_PREFACE_

Having spread myself discursively in four books dealing with the
naval aspect of many things; _videlicet_ and to wit:

_of Shoes_; especially of Pusser's Crabs, footwear of the British
Matlow in all climes; of sea-boots, which may be taken up On Loan,
and with a certain amount of tact and discretion may be attracted
into the orbit of personal and private gear; and of Uniform Boots,
plain-fronted and without toe-caps, the mark of the correctly-garbed
Naval Officer, distinguishing the pukka navy man not seldom from his
temporary brother who is apt to be known by his Feet of Clay, i.e. a
pair of Plain-clothes boots with patterns punched in holes all over
their bows:

_and Ships_; treating of them according to their various classes and
according to their many kinds of work in the Great War:

_and Sealing-wax_; also of Red Tape, and other such weapons of
officialdom; how they vex the souls of bluff happy-go-lucky
sailormen; how they can be parried and evaded by guile and
experience; and how the command to Give Reasons In Writing must be
correctly met by the soft answer that turneth away wrath, beginning
with I Have The Honour To Submit and finishing with the additional
Honour--(really, it is a wonder that the humble delinquent can bear
the weight of so many honours!)--of Being Your Obedient Servant:

_of Cabbages_; and other succulent produce of the kitchen garden,
sent by the very kindest of Committees to the men of the Grand Fleet
month after month, a welcome change from the official spud.  Also of
other cabbages, grown by optimistic and energetic and enthusiastic
Naval Officers in extemporised gardens upon the islands of Flotta and
Fara:

_and Kings_, and notably of our own most gracious sovereign Liege
Lord, and his visits to the Fleet where he was welcomed indeed as
King, but doubly and trebly welcomed as being himself a Navy man.

--_Having_, I say, discoursed of these and similar matters in certain
volumes which both the general public and the reviewers have received
with very great kindness--though a friend of mine _did_ say to me,
"whenever I find that I can't go to sleep I just take up one of your
books and read a chapter, and then I soon drop off"; and I am left
guessing to this very day whether or not he meant it as a
compliment--having, I repeat, written these four books of essays and
sketches (this sentence is really going to close now) it occurred to
me that it would be a great relief to myself, if not to my readers,
if I were to write a story.

A Naval story, of course.  I quite understand that I must confine
myself to my own sphere and not try to write about people and things
I didn't know--though I believe there have been story-writers who
have been known to do such a thing.

Well, it sounds easy enough, to write a Naval story.  But it is the
very dickens of a job when you actually settle down to do it; and
I'll tell you why.

First, because most of the fashionable methods of treatment,
applicable readily enough to shore-going stories, do not fit in at
all well with a nautical atmosphere.

For example, there is the method which may be described politely as
the Biological--and impolitely as, well, choose your own word for it,
please.  Books of this kind generally contain a Triangle and a
Problem, like Euclid; but with this exception they do not at all
resemble him.

Even with the worst intentions, however, it would be almost
impossible to conform to this method, because the Navy is not
Bisexual: unless you count the Wrens; and these, unfortunately--or is
it fortunately?--are not allowed to go to sea; and anyhow, the Wrens
deserve a story all to themselves, and it should be written in
letters of gold.

Then there is another favourite story-form, in which you are told at
great length how John Smith, of Yorkshire or the Midlands, cooms doon
fro' th' hoose to th' works i' th' morning and fares back fro' th'
works to th' hoose at neet, and does this for twenty-odd years
without any more exciting incident than taking tea on one occasion
wi' a neebour; and that's all there is to it.

Here again, the method appears scarcely thrilling enough for a sea
story, and I'm quite sure you wouldn't really like it.

Or there is that other method, greatly affected by certain writers,
of describing minutely the hero's daily doings from the moment of his
birth, through his childhood, youth, adolescence, and early manhood,
until--until you feel that you really couldn't stick another page of
him!

That is all very well in its way; but the lives of all naval officers
are really so very much alike in most details that if I were to
attempt this sort of writing I might get myself into serious trouble
with the very senior officers, who would want to know why I had dug
up their past in this barefaced manner!

And that reminds me; in my last book, "The Curtain of Steel," I took
particular pains to insist, in the preface, that there were no
portraits amongst the characters therein depicted; there was, I
stated only one part-exception to this--I had drawn from life in one
sole instance; "and that," said I, "was the face of a good man."
Well in due course I had a letter from one of my late messmates,
which said, "when we read the preface and saw it stated that there
was one portrait, the face of a good man, everyone blushed
self-consciously."  It just shows how hard it is to ram an idea into
some people, doesn't it?

Anyhow, at the risk of being again disbelieved or misunderstood, I
beg to repeat the statement in reference to this present book that
THERE ARE NO PORTRAITS IN IT.

But, to go back to the difficulties of writing a sea story.  The
second of these is that there is always Captain Marryat to contend
with.

I mean that this splendid old fellow has set the pace so rapidly that
any modern weakling who endeavours to follow lamely in his footsteps
will not be considered to be giving his readers their money's worth
unless he provides a fight with cannons and cutlasses, or some
hairbreadth escape, on every other page.

Now, naval warfare up to date has been proved to be somewhat
monotonously free from stirring incidents.  Marryat would probably
have used up the whole of this war's sea-fighting in one book, or in
two at most.  There have been plenty of actions with the enemy, of
course, and very thrilling ones; but they have been so equally
distributed amongst the various units of the Navy that it would be an
impossibility to make a hero participate in a sufficient number to
enable one to make a whole volume out of him.

So the only thing to do was to take an incident--or rather, in this
case, to invent one--and with it fill up the two hours' traffic of a
book.  The incident had of course to be of the real old-fashioned
cut-and-thrust order; nobody wants analytical and psychological
character drawing in a naval story.  The play's the thing--and, after
all, in spite of the people who scorn to introduce into their books
anything so utterly _démodé_ as a plot, and even sniff at the
vulgarity of mere incidents, there is something to be said for a yarn
which does not profess to be anything more than a yarn with no more
purpose than that of wiling away an idle hour or two.

I like writing prefaces.  I don't know if you like reading them.  Do
you mind if I go on with this one for a bit?

I know I shall get into hot water about Patrick Sheridan's dialect.
Once upon a time I wrote a little story in which I made an Irishman
say:

Begobs; it was, perhaps, a weak thing to do, but really I meant no
harm.  Well, an Irish correspondent wrote at once to the paper, very
indignantly, to protest against my putting that expression into the
mouth of one of his compatriots.  And it appears that something of
this sort nearly always happens when anyone attempts to reproduce a
so-called Irish dialect, and especially when he reproduces it very
badly--as I admit I do.

This is very strange; one may with impunity write in that peculiar
and well-known Loamshire dialect which is nowhere found but in the
English novel or on the English stage--and no Englishman ever thinks
of grumbling; he is, indeed, rather amused, though generally still
more bored.  But if one dares to make an Irishman say "fwhat" for
"what," or "whoy" for "why"--well, it is treated as just one more
injustice to Ireland!

Yet, what can one do?  There are conventions to be observed and these
are maintained because they are not only conventions but
conveniences; and just as you have a stage Irishman whom you can
recognise at once by his knee-breeches, flower-pot hat, and little
black dudheen, so you have also the book-Irishman who is labelled as
such by a few unmistakable turns of speech.  It makes no difference
that the stage-Irishman and the book-Irishman are never seen and
never have been seen in real life.  Their peculiarities are simply
labels, like those which the Elizabethans used to stick up on their
back-cloths to say "This is a castle"; it wasn't in the remotest
degree like a castle, but everyone knew what was meant.

And, of course, even the most scrupulously careful effort to
reproduce dialect phonetically in print is bound to be a lamentable
failure.  Many people will probably be surprised to be told that the
function of the written or printed word is primarily to record
_ideas_, and only secondarily--if at all--to record _sounds_.
Certainly, our own English alphabet, with its ridiculously inadequate
complement of twenty-six letters, is hopelessly unfitted to do the
work of a gramophone; the thing would be impossible, really, were the
alphabet ten times as big.  And that is why the very greatest
writers, such as Dickens, never seriously attempt to reduce to
writing every word of their dialect-characters in the exact form
implied, but content themselves with inserting a dialect-word here
and there, thus avoiding a form of writing which would be an
intolerable labour to the reader, while sufficiently indicating that
the curiosities of speech are to be understood throughout.  It is not
necessary to place milestones at every yard of the road.

I hope it is not necessary also for me to apologise for this same
Patrick Sheridan being a thorough Bad Hat.  If you can't employ a
Villain in a story, what can you do?  It does not necessarily follow
that the villain is taken as a type of his whole race and nation; and
in this present case I positively disavow any such intention; so be
it known to all men by these presents.

Oh yes, there is one thing more.  When I announced, in the sanctity
of the home circle, my determination to write a story, the Critic on
the Hearth--the junior one--said, "Well, mind you don't write
anything about girls and Love; 'cause you can't do it!"

Did you ever hear of such a thing?  Of course, no man could take a
dare like that; and, besides, what would a naval story be like if it
didn't contain something about both of these subjects?  A wishy-washy
affair!  Try and imagine Jack without his Faithful Poll!  The thing
simply can't be done.  So there just had to be Girls and Love in it.
But whether I have given satisfaction or not must remain unknown
until the aforesaid Critic on the Hearth reads the attempt in cold
print; and then it will be too late to complain.

Naval readers will be certain to note a few inaccuracies in the
description of a "Court of Iniquity" at the end of the book.

But that is because...

And I am confident that this will be recognised as an adequate
explanation.

And now, having as I hope disarmed criticism all round beforehand--a
wise precaution to take, and one which I trust will be justified by
results--perhaps I had better go ahead with the yarn.

  H.M.S. _Vivid_,
  1919.




_In Peril on the Sea_



CHAPTER I

It is cold, very cold, up on the bridge of the solitary cruiser.

The chilling mist which has been gathering over the face of the still
waters all the afternoon now thickens and banks up into a dense white
fog as the short October evening closes swiftly in.

An anxious time indeed for those on the bridge; a fog is more to be
dreaded than the heaviest gale.  Not half so dangerous is the sea
when its lashing waves sweep the ship's decks as when it lies
treacherously calm, leaden and lifeless, beneath the impenetrable
shroud of the white sea-mist.

Yet the grim irony of War can make even this axiom suffer a
sea-change: if any testimony were needed to the stern reality of
naval life in war time it could be found in this, that even the hated
sea-fog may have its welcome side.

One danger drives out another.  If the fog blinds the eyes of the
look-out men, it also blankets the periscope of any lurking hostile
submarine.

So the _Marathon_ slows down to ten knots: and presently to seven.
The escorting destroyers, one on either bow, can no longer be seen;
they can only be heard by the mournful ringing of the fog-bell at one
minute intervals, the sound coming muffled and diminished across the
veiled waters.

The navigating bridge, which is the highest platform of a complex
structure built around the foremast, forms a little world of its own,
poised between sea and sky and isolated from that other little world
of the ship far beneath.

The occupants of this island in mid-air are few--to be exact, just
four men; two bluejacket look-out men, the officer of the watch, and
the navigator.

Of these, the look-out men have nothing to do just at present, for
the simple reason that they cannot see even as far as the bows; the
officer of the watch also finds his position a sinecure, since the
ship is on a steady course and he has not even an order to call down
the voice-pipe to the bridge beneath, where the quartermaster stands
by the side of the able seaman at the wheel.

The navigating officer alone of the four finds something to occupy
his time.  He is standing at a tiny chart table with a hinged glass
cover which, when raised, acts as a wind screen.  Here he bends over
his chart and makes many calculations in silence, as he has in fact
been doing for the past half-hour.

Stapleton, the officer of the watch, finds the proceedings distinctly
uninteresting.  He has had no one to speak to and practically nothing
to do ever since he came on watch.  The cold strikes through his
thick duffel coat, and even his heavy sea-boots and the woollen
stockings drawn well up over his knees outside his trousers are a
poor protection in this raw weather.

Pulling down the wrist of his gauntlet he glances at his watch in the
fading light, and notes with satisfaction that it is close on six
o'clock.  In a very few minutes he will be able to leave the bridge
and go below.

But in reality he does not mind either the cold or the tedium of
watch-keeping.  He is far too keen for that.  Every line of his tall,
strong-knit figure and of his somewhat hatchet-like face spells
keenness.  And if proof of this were wanted, there is the fact that
there is no need at all for him to be keeping watch; as first
lieutenant and executive officer of the ship watch-keeping forms no
part of his regular duties; yet he has undertaken to keep a standing
first dog, to relieve the other watchkeepers and to keep things in
this department up to the high-water mark of smartness and efficiency.

That is his way.

Now that his self-imposed task is nearly over he steps forward to the
navigating officer at the chart table, and says:

"I'm away below in a moment, Navvy.  What about it?  It's beastly
thick--do you think we ought to give the Owner a call?"

The navigator looks up from his work and peers into the fog-bank.
"Well, I shouldn't--not yet," he answers.  "The old man is having a
doss in his sea-cabin--he'll be up all through the night, probably.
I shall be here for a bit myself, and I'll call him if necessary.
But I think the fog may lift presently.  It seems to me to be more
patchy than it was.  Shouldn't be surprised if it were only local,
and if so we may run out of it before long."

"All right, old man, if you think so."  And with a nod he turns away,
as Morley, the lieutenant who is to keep the last dog, appears coming
up the ladder on the very stroke of four bells.  Relieving the bridge
strictly up to time is a virtue of the _Marathon_, thanks to the
first lieutenant, who won't countenance any slackness in this
respect, and sets a good example himself.  With a few rapid words
technical phrases and seaman's language he "turns over" to Morley;
and then, relapsing into everyday phraseology, he callously bids that
young officer "Don't let yourself get over-heated--and beware of
being led away into idle gossiping by that garrulous navigator."  And
with a laugh he rattles down the ladder and makes his way to the
wardroom.

The half dozen officers whom he finds assembled in that very warm and
cosy room he greets with:

"Phew, what a cheery old fug!" and it certainly is a very different
atmosphere from that of the navigating bridge.  As for being cheery,
the blazing fire and the glow of the electric lights beneath their
shades of yellow silk make the wardroom a very pleasant place indeed.

Stapleton peels off his thick duffel coat and sheds some of his other
trappings, then flings himself into a comfortable arm-chair near the
fire and announces to the mess in general that he is not too proud to
accept a drink from anyone.  As, however, this hint meets with no
acceptance, he is constrained to summon the waiter himself and to
make the necessary arrangements.

"What's it like up topside?" queries Dale, the surgeon, looking up
from the card-table where he is playing bridge with the
fleet-paymaster, the senior engineer-lieutenant, and one of the
watchkeepers.

"Pretty thick.  But I think it's beginning to clear a little."

"Well," remarks the engineer-lieutenant.  "I hope so, anyway.  I
don't much care for crawling along at this speed.  Hallo! what's
that?"--his attentive ear has caught the sound of a bell in the
engine-room ringing a quick succession of sharp strokes.  "Slowing
down again?  What's that for, I wonder?"

He looks puzzled; and with a brief excuse to the others at the card
table makes off to go below, where he feels he may be wanted.

But the reason for slackening speed is not for long a mystery.  A
messenger from the bridge, a smart young signalman, enters and
approaches the recumbent first lieutenant, and presents a signal-pad.
The first lieutenant takes it carelessly and reads aloud:

"_Floating object, apparently mine, on surface bearing right ahead of
you_.  Hm, cheerful prospect, isn't it?"

"Who's that from, Number One?" enquires the fleet-paymaster.

"From one of our destroyers.  I suppose we are slowing down to touch
it off.  Well, it isn't in my line.  Someone else can attend to that
business, I'm not going to disturb myself for that--all right,
signalman.  Guns, this seems to be more in your line than mine."

The gunnery-lieutenant who has been, chuckling quietly to himself
over a novel, has in fact already pricked up his ears at the mention
of something relating to his own beloved artillery; and elated at the
prospect of firing one of his guns, if only at a floating mine, he
flings down his novel and strides off to make for the upper deck.

There is a mild excitement amongst those in the wardroom who have not
followed him up on deck to watch the proceedings.  Someone remarks
with contemptuous disgust on the flagrant disregard for the ways of
civilisation which has prompted the Hun to scatter his floating mines
broadcast on the ocean in defiance of all international law.  But the
remark is made with little fervour and scarcely any bitterness--the
Hun has multiplied his diabolical deeds in so many other undreamt of
directions that such a trifle as this has long ago ceased to seem a
thing to be wondered at.

The young watchkeeper at the bridge-table treats the matter
facetiously.  "Dashed bad luck, I call it," he grumbles; "if only
those silly signalmen weren't so darned officious, we might have had
the joss to bump the thing!  A nice little hole in the for'ard
compartments or a broken stem-piece ought to be good for a couple of
months in dock, and then we might all of us have wangled a nice drop
of leave!"

Stapleton rounds upon him in a tone of affected horror, "_What!_ you
mutinous, unpatriotic, selfish young anarchist!  The _Marathon_ is to
get blown up just to give you a month's holiday?  Well I'm ... no,
words fail me!"

He laughs, but there is a certain seriousness in his voice which is
not all affected.  The very idea of any disaster happening to the
_Marathon_--except in battle with the enemy, which would be the
fortune of war and a very different matter altogether--is something
which he does not care to contemplate.  Not without the envy of half
the other two-and-a-half stripers of his seniority did he achieve the
coveted appointment of first lieutenant to the _Marathon_, the very
latest thing in light cruisers.  Only two sister-ships, the _Salamis_
and the _Thermopylæ_, were in commission at the time when Stapleton
was appointed; and there was more competition to go to one of this
_Greeko_ class, as the Navy affectionately termed them, than there
was for ships of the most powerful battle-squadron; such was the
reputation of these marvellous little cruisers, in which speed,
armament and armour combined to form something nearly approaching a
naval constructor's dream.

Surgeon Dale looks up presently from the table where he has been
holding a post-mortem on the last hand in the temporary absence of
his partner.

"Guns is a long time downing that mine," he remarks; "What's the
delay, I wonder?"

Stapleton awakens at this remark to the realisation that he has been
lost in a reverie about his beloved ship, and that the double
explosion of gun and mine which might reasonably have been expected
for some minutes past has, as a matter of fact, not been heard at all.

He too looks up wonderingly.  And, as if in answer to his unspoken
query, the skylight overhead is at that moment lifted and the face
appears of an excited officer who calls down into the wardroom.

"I say, it isn't a mine at all--it's a boat!  A drifting boat.  With
people in it.  Shipwrecked.  We're stopping to pick them up!"




CHAPTER II

There is a rush to look out of the wardroom scuttles, everyone being
eager with curiosity to see the new and unexpected sight.

At first there is nothing to be seen from the wardroom except the
unruffled surface of the sea, still veiled in the white mist.

But when the cruiser, gradually losing way, turns to port before
finally stopping, a boat comes into view on the starboard bow and
soon is right on the beam, still some little distance away.

Overhead, the sea-boat's crew are already clambering over the netting
into the cutter swung outboard at the davits, and the falls are
manned.  Quickly the boat is lowered, and as soon as she touches the
water her crew have got their oars out and are pulling away rapidly
in the direction of the derelict boat.

Such a forlorn object it looks, there on the friendless sea, alone
and helpless.  She is just drifting at the mercy of the wind and the
current; there is no sail hoisted, and no attempt at getting the oars
out to pull.  What use, indeed, so far from any shore?

Even at this distance it can be seen that the occupants of the
drifting boat are but three.  This also explains why they have
accepted the inevitable and resigned themselves to their fate without
endeavouring to save themselves.  How could three people hope to pull
a heavy life-boat?

And what is more--yes, why surely!  Now that one of those at the
wardroom scuttles gifted with sharper eyes than the rest points out
the fact the others also are able to see that he has made no
mistake--two out of the three in the boat are women!

At this discovery the wardroom is cleared at once and everybody makes
a bee-line for the upper deck.

The first lieutenant has already gone, some time ago.  A mere
floating mine is none of his business and fails to interest him, but
a derelict boat with people to be picked up is a very different
matter.  This is his business, and no sooner is the first
announcement made than he is away on deck to take charge of things.

From the quarter deck of the cruiser the officers grouped at the
ship's side all with binoculars or telescopes levelled on the two
boats see the cutter approach the derelict and take her in tow.  In a
moment more the boat's crew are pulling swiftly back to the ship.

The first lieutenant gives a brief order, and a couple of hands
overhaul the gangway falls and lower the ladder to the water's edge.
When it is made fast he descends and stands on the little platform at
the bottom, with the surgeon at his side.  The latter has already
given directions to his staff in the sick bay to have everything in
readiness that may be required in the way of restoratives for the
strangers.

The cutter comes near, and deftly casts off the tow at the exact
moment so as to allow the lifeboat to come alongside the gangway at
the time when her way has practically stopped.

The first lieutenant is waiting with outstretched hand to fend off
the boat, and to catch the painter, giving this a swift turn round
the stanchion of the gangway so as to bring the boat to a complete
standstill.

Then he jumps in quickly, followed by Dale, and the two of them
assist the women out of the boat and up to the cruiser's deck.  The
man of the shipwrecked party requires no help.  Without a word he
follows in the wake of the others with so erect a figure and so firm
a stride that it is evident he has suffered no great harm from his
exposure.

But the two women are in much worse case than he.  They are both
quite young, young enough almost to be the man's daughters, though
this is scarcely probable since they are so unlike him--and indeed so
unlike each other also, one being tall and dark, the other of medium
height and fair.

The latter, who is the younger of the two girls, is almost in a state
of collapse, and Dale has to take her into his arms and carry her up
the gangway.  The dark one merely supports herself on Stapleton's
arm, and with unsteady steps makes her way to the cruiser's deck.

Here Captain Blake is waiting to receive them, and does so with a few
kindly words of welcome--a very few, because he is far too sensible
to spend time in useless talk at such a moment.

"Better take them down to the wardroom, Stapleton," he advises--"that
is, if you fellows won't mind.  There's no fire in my cabin aft.
I'll have it lighted though, and they can go there presently.
Meanwhile, I'm sure you won't object to being the hosts instead of
myself."

Object to it?  Why the officers of the _Marathon_ cannot do enough
for their poor guests.  In a moment they have taken complete charge
of them, and having got them down below are fussing over them in a
crowd, all eagerly trying to do something that may add to the comfort
of the unfortunate people.  The young marine officer stokes up the
fire and piles on coal to make a blazing glow, the fleet-paymaster
pushes forward armchairs in a half-circle around the stove, the
engineer-lieutenant and a brace of watchkeepers are bustling round to
procure food and drink, and have impressed into their service the
whole body of marine servants and wine stewards.  Another officer has
dashed off to his cabin and returned with an armful of blankets, and
yet another, having summoned the wardroom messenger, is loudly
impressing on that stolid youth an order to go to the galley and tell
the cook to have lots of hot water ready--though exactly what he
wants with hot water is not precisely clear.  Hovering around these
and getting in their way is a little knot of other officers of
various ranks and ages who are anxious to help but cannot quite make
up their minds as to the particular capacity in which they can best
make themselves useful.

The doctor bundles most of them out of the room, telling them in
terms more candid than polite that they are clucking around like a
lot of old hens and would they be good enough to run away and play
somewhere else, as they are only in the way here.

As the doctor is an autocrat under present conditions he gains his
ends without any demur; but relents to the extent of permitting four
or five of the more senior officers to remain and give their
assistance.

Stapleton takes it for granted that he is one of these who are to
stay.  It is to be feared that he is not actuated simply by an
altruistic desire to aid suffering humanity; there is more than a
suspicion that he finds an irresistible attraction in the beautiful
dark girl--at any rate, he hovers around her with every possible
offer of assistance rather to the neglect of the other, whom he
leaves to the tender mercies of Surgeon Dale.  As for the man of the
shipwrecked party he sits apart, surrounded and ministered to by
those officers who are a little shy of attending on the ladies.

Possibly their shyness is accentuated by the fact that the attire of
the said ladies is decidedly scanty.  It is evident that they must
have been surprised by whatever mischance had befallen them at a time
when they were asleep in their cabins, for their garments bear
witness to a hurried departure.

The older of the two girls, the dark one, has simply thrown on a
heavy wadded silk kimono over her _robe de nuit_, and has thrust her
dainty feet into a pair of dancing slippers.  The other girl,
presumably refusing to leave the ship till the last possible
moment--one can almost hear her companion calling to her and urging
her to make haste before it is too late--has put on boots and
stockings and a skirt, with a long fur coat over all; poor enough
protection, even this, for hours in an open boat!  The man is in
shirt and trousers, and he also appears to have found time to put on
his boots without worrying about stockings.

Such is the garb in which the three make their appearance on board
the _Marathon_; but the blankets collected by the thoughtful young
lieutenant who went off to ransack his cabin have been called into
immediate requisition and put to good purpose; and certain other gear
has been turned out and put to daintier use than that for which it
was originally meant; who would have dreamt, for instance, that a
pair of Stapleton's football stockings would ever be graced by such a
pretty pair of limbs as are encased in them now?




CHAPTER III

Captain Blake also remains in the wardroom, and endeavours to put the
unfortunate people at ease by getting them to talk calmly of their
misadventure.

At first he is somewhat unsuccessful, the girls, at least, are
seemingly so frightened and collapsed that they can hardly get beyond
a few disjointed sentences and much sobbing.  But Captain Blake keeps
manfully at his task and feigns to take no notice of their whispered
hesitations.

"That's better," he says cheerfully, as he stirs the fire to a still
fiercer blaze.  "Poor things, how cold you must be!  How long did you
say you were adrift in that boat?"  As a matter of fact they had not
said anything about it, but Captain Blake ignores this detail.

"Since about five o'clock this morning.  Our ship was torpedoed just
a few minutes before the hour."

The dark girl has suddenly found her voice.  And a beautiful voice it
is in which she makes this clear sharp statement; a rich, full
contralto, with just a sweet suspicion of an Irish brogue about it.

Stapleton turns his eyes wonderingly on her as she speaks.  Is it
possible to fall in love with a voice?  If so, then this is just the
sort of voice to make such an act excusable.

"Over twelve hours, and in this bitter weather!" exclaims the
Captain.  "I wonder you are alive!  And was no one saved but you
three?  But--stupid of me--of course, you can tell us all about that
later."  Then, turning to the man of the party, who persists in
remaining apart from the others--"Do pull over your chair, my dear
sir, you must be----"

"Thank ye, I'm all right," comes the rather ungracious answer.  "Ye
need not mind me, if ye'll look after the two girls.  It's perished
with the cold they are.  For myself, I want nothing."

Stapleton bends his head towards Dale and says in an undertone,
"Seems a surly kind of chap, doesn't he?"  But the doctor does not
reply: he looks from one to the other of the shipwrecked passengers
and shakes his head mysteriously.

At this moment there is an opportune interruption, as a small army of
waiters and stewards file into the room with all manner of
preparations for refreshing the inner man.  One would think from the
number of dishes and decanters that there was a whole shipwrecked
crew waiting to be fed instead of only three people!

However, it is a very welcome sight and there is much bustling about
to seize the most tempting articles of food and drink and offer them
to the famished guests.

Dale, knowing well what will be the most useful as a preliminary,
seizes brandy and hot water, and insists upon his patients taking
some immediately.  He himself holds the glass to the lips of the
younger girl, who is by far the most fainting of them all.

"Oh please, please," she stammers, turning her head away, and pushing
the glass aside, "I--I can't.  Oh, I'm so frightened!  This is a
terrible business!"

"Come, come, that's all right.  Drink this and you will feel better.
There's no need to worry over anything now.  It's all over, you know!"

"Oh, but it _isn't_!  I'm--oh dear, oh dear!"  More sobbing.  Dale is
rather taken aback, but still keeps gently insisting till finally he
succeeds in making the girl swallow a little of the brandy.  The
Captain, who cannot stand a woman's tears, murmurs something
apologetic and altogether unintelligible and makes a bolt from the
room.

Stapleton meanwhile has had better success with the other girl.
Confronted with the same tearful hesitation he adopts different
methods.

"Yes, yes, I know you don't like it, and all that sort of thing," he
says banteringly, "but just swallow it down like a good child and you
shall have a bun and an orange and go to the pantomime.  Don't think
about it--think of something else; good speech that of Lloyd George
the other day, wasn't it?  Been to any of the new revues lately?
There--that's done it!  You'll feel quite yourself again presently.
Pardon my drastic methods, won't you?"

The girl is forced to smile through her tears.  "Oh, thank you, thank
you, you are very good!  How can you be so kind to us?  Oh, if only
you----"

"Norah!----"

It is the man who has uttered this sharp cry which rings loud above
the buzz of talk and the noise of the busy waiters, and creates a
sudden silence in the room.

Stapleton and Dale turn quickly towards the man.  The surgeon is so
startled that he drops the glass from his hand, and it shivers upon
the hard deck with a tinkling crash.

"Ah," says the man, "'tis my nerves are on the stretch!"  Apparently
he is explaining and apologising for his startled exclamation.  "And
small wonder!  From seven o'clock this morning in an open boat--an'
then to see our ship go down before our very eyes!  'Twas a German
submarine, sir--a deliberate attack without warning!  Would you
believe, now, that they would do such a dirty trick?  A helpless
passenger ship, with women and little children on board of her!  And
never a chance for anyone to get clear of the vessel before they
attacked her!  Ah, 'twas a cruel deed--foul shame to them!"

"You're right, sir," remarks Dale, briefly, and turns away again,
content to leave the man to the fleet-paymaster and the
engineer-commander who are quite capable, he thinks, of looking after
him.  And, moreover, the young surgeon does not take kindly to the
man.  There was something a little uncalled for, as it seems, to him,
in that long-winded tirade following on that cry of "_Norah!_"

What was the meaning of his calling out in that fashion?  After all,
there was no explanation of it in the rapid stream of words that
followed.  And--yes, Dale was sure of it--there had certainly been a
note of _warning_ in the man's voice.

But why?  Well, it was not worth wondering about and the surgeon's
mind quickly turns to other matters.

As for Stapleton, he is glad to learn in this unexpected way the name
of the beautiful dark lady in distress.

"Norah," he repeats quickly to himself--"Norah!  And a very pretty
name, too.  Yes, it suits her; Norah."

The last "Norah" comes from his lips a little louder than he had
intended in trying the sound of it to himself.  The owner of the name
catches the sound of it and smiles a little, guessing what is in his
mind.

"Yes, that is my name," she says, "Norah Sheridan.  I ought to have
told you before.  And these are my cousins with whom I am travelling,
Netta and Patrick Sheridan."

"It was a dangerous business crossing the seas at such a time,"
observes Dale.  "You haven't told us yet where you were coming from?"

"From America," hesitatingly answers the younger girl, noting that
the question is addressed to her.

"From what part?"

"From--where was it, Norah?"

"From Galveston in Texas.  We were bound for Hull, taking the route
around the North of Scotland."

"And you were almost safe in port!" exclaims Stapleton.  "That was
rough luck!  I suppose you were just congratulating yourselves on
being pretty safe, after having escaped danger for--how many days had
you been at sea?"

"I don't remember," stammers Netta, and again appeals to her cousin:
"How many days was it, Norah?"

"Eight.  Our escape was a most miraculous one.  I don't believe there
were any other survivors.  I saw boat after boat swamped as they
tried to get clear of the ship!"

A pretty cool young woman this, thinks Surgeon Dale, as he listens to
her crisp, concise statement.  Certainly she puts things in a very
matter of fact way!

On Stapleton, however, the effect of the girl's words is very
different.  He is roused to a white rage.

"Those swine, those murdering devils!" he cries, clenching his fists
and flashing fire from his keen blue eyes--"and to think they have
the insolence to call themselves sailors!  Making war against
defenceless passenger ships!"

His anger quickly cools, as he continues reflectingly.

"Now, to torpedo a ship like this, a pukka man-of-war, that would
only be fair game.  If _we_ should happen to get blown to blazes, we
shouldn't have any cause for----"

With a stifled scream Netta breaks in, "Oh don't--_don't_!
Horrible--horrible!"

"Shut up, you silly ass," Dale admonishes him.  "Don't you see the
poor girl has had about as much as she can stand for one day?  Just
let her stay quiet and rest a while."

"Of course!  What a fool I was!  I _am_ sorry--I ought to have had
more sense than to upset you like that.  Please forgive me, and just
remember you are perfectly safe on board the old _Marathon_.  Say
what you want--everything in the ship is entirely at your disposal,
and every man of us too!"

"Yes, I know you are," comes the steady reply in Norah's beautiful
contralto.

"Oh, Norah, how _can_ you?"  In some unexplained manner the simple
words has had the result of upsetting her tremulous cousin once more,
for the poor girl breaks again into a fit of uncontrollable sobbing.

"'Poor little girl!" Stapleton murmurs; and feeling that something
more than the rough touch of a man's sympathy is required to soothe
those jangled nerves, appeals to her cousin.

"Can't you say something to quiet her?  Tell her it's all right now,
and there's not the least danger--and if there were, there are four
hundred good men on board who would gladly give up their lives to
save yours."  And he adds in a louder tone:

"As for me, if I had a hundred lives they should all be yours, if you
wanted them!"

The words are not spoken so low but that Norah hears them.  And there
is no mistaking the fact that they are meant in all seriousness.  Has
the man fallen in love with her, then?  Is this a case of that
proverbial gallantry of the typical naval officer--or is it something
deeper than that?

Be it what it may, the effect upon her is to say the least of it
unexpected.  She is neither melted into softness at the impassioned
words, nor on the other hand does she seem offended.  Only she sets
her lips firmly, and for a moment a look as of a fixed resolve, a
fierce determination, comes into her eyes.  And she answers never a
word.




CHAPTER IV

Captain Blake, driven from the wardroom by a woman's sobbing, has not
allowed his sentimental nature to interfere with his proper duties.
Had he been that sort of man he would not have been given command of
the _Marathon_ at the age of forty-two.  One of the very smartest and
most efficient of the junior captains he has made his way up the
ladder without interest simply by his own abilities, and especially
by his oft proved readiness to do the right thing in an emergency.

On this particular occasion perhaps no very great genius is required
to cope with the situation; but he has dealt with it in the quickest
and most effectual way, as is shown when he presently comes again
into the wardroom and announces:

"I hope you haven't been thinking that I've neglected you?  But I
knew that I had left you in good hands and you would be well looked
after.  Meanwhile, I've been calling up by wireless one of our
destroyer escort, and I propose to send you back to the shore in her.
Ah, that's the reply I expect"--as a signalman enters and holds up
before him a signal pad with a written message on it--"Yes, that's
all right.  She'll be alongside soon, and we'll have you all quite
safe on shore before very long."

"We did not expect to get away so soon, sir," says the dour Sheridan.
Surgeon Dale, who prides himself on being a keen observer, thinks he
detects a certain note of disappointment in the words.

"Well," says the captain, who also notices something of the same sort
but interprets it in a different sense, "I'm afraid it is the best I
can do, under the circumstances.  Naturally, you would prefer to wait
and be landed at some civilised spot, but we unfortunately are not
cruising to any such destination.  And I can't let the destroyer be
away from us too long--she must return again during the night.  But
you shall be landed at our own base, and you can go south from there
in a day or two.  Will that suit you, do you think?"

Sheridan has been listening very intently to the captain's words, and
it is quite noticeable that he tries to control an ill-pleased
expression.  Though what on earth he can find to be annoyed about in
such a kind offer is hard to imagine.  Moreover, the same tone of
chagrin creeps involuntarily into his voice as he replies with brief
courtesy:

"Thank you, sir; the arrangements will suit us admirably."

Under cover of the captain's presence, and taking advantage of his
timely monopoly of the conversation, Stapleton has beguiled his lady
fair into the farthest corner of the wardroom, where a hanging
curtain makes a little alcove so that they are shut off from the
others, at least, as far as this is possible in a small cruiser's
wardroom.

The pretext under which he executes this manœuvre is that he
wishes to show her a picture of the ship hanging there, and will be
charmed if she will allow him to send her a copy of it later on as a
memento of her short visit.  But strangely enough he forgets all
about this as soon as they are alone together, and apparently finds
plenty to say to her on some other subject.  For he seats her in a
cosy wicker chair and, drawing over another for himself bends towards
her and talks earnestly in an undertone.  Very earnestly indeed.

"And now, sir," continues the captain, "if you feel fit to do so, I
should be glad if you would come along to my cabin and let me take
down your report of this distressing affair.  I expect the destroyer
will be here, ready to take you back, in about twenty minutes."

Stapleton, overhearing him, remarks quietly, "Oh, damn!--that is, I
beg your pardon, I meant 'oh, bother!'"

"But why do you say that?" asks Norah Sheridan suppressing a smile.

"Because it means that you will have to go away, just as I--oh, dash
it all--why, I may never see you again!"

"I think that is more than likely."  Again that hard resolute
expression in the girl's eyes.

"But I--I want to see you again!  Oh, I say, I do wish you hadn't got
to go so soon!  But, look here, you will let me see you again some
time, won't you?  Tell me where I can come and see you."

"But how can you want that?  Barely half an hour ago you did not even
know of my existence!"

"That does not matter at all.  The main thing is that I do know of it
now.  Think, how strange it is, your coming here in such a fashion!
Can't you see that there is something greater than ourselves in all
this?  Don't you believe it is Destiny that is leading you--and me?"

"Perhaps I do believe it."  Very softly comes this admission.

"Then don't attempt to fight against fate: I tell you we must meet
again."

"I do not think that you will ever be able to see me, after to-day."

"No, no, don't say that!  I will surely come if you will let me."

"That may be beyond my power--and yours."

"You are right--of course.  I know quite well what you mean.  Though
we hardly ever give it a thought--or if we do, it is only to jest
about it; all the same we know very well, all of us, that our country
may claim our lives at any moment.  Well, so be it!  But, putting
aside that chance, will you not let me see you again?"

"Do you really mean that you would come?"

"Mean it?  Why, I would--oh, I know what it is; you are thinking that
I am just an impulsive fool, the sort of impressionable idiot who
loses his head over every pretty girl he sees and says all manner of
things without meaning them.  Well, I'm not surprised if you do think
so.  I've no right to expect anything else.  But all the same I do
not happen to be that kind of man."

"Did I say that I thought that of you?"

"No, but you looked it!  Well, I don't wonder.  Any girl would, I
suppose.  Or else you probably think I have gone mad to talk like
this to you.  Perhaps I have; but nevertheless, I ask you again, only
tell me where I may find you, and if I live I will come to you."

"But you don't know who I am!  You don't know what I am!"

"I know enough.  Listen!  It is quite true that up to less than an
hour ago I never knew you, had never even seen you.  But very great
things can happen in a little time, can't they?  And it is a great
thing that has happened to me.  I never thought to fall in
love--certainly not to fall a victim to love at first sight like a
moonstruck boy.  I meant to live for the Service, and that was my
only ambition: women never entered into my life.  But now, this thing
has come to me, and my only hope lies in telling you openly, in these
few minutes that are left to us."

"Do you mean," says the girl, speaking very slowly and with a quite
unaccountable look of something very like horror in her dilated eyes,
"do you mean to tell me seriously that you have actually fallen in
love with me?  Is this what you are telling me?"

"It is.  That, and nothing less.  I can't blame you if you think I
have gone suddenly out of my senses, as I daresay you do.  Oh, I
know--I always used to think myself, like most people, I suppose,
that love at first sight was nothing more than the sort of romantic
nonsense one reads about in books, and never happened in real life.
Well, I daresay it doesn't occur very often; but just once in a while
it must happen or else people would never have thought about such a
thing.  And now I have proved it is true.  As soon as I saw you
standing here in the light of this room I knew that there never would
be any other woman in the world for me but you, and--I loved you!"

"But why--oh, why?"

"How can I tell?  These things are beyond the powers of reason.  If
you want me to analyse my feelings, I know that I saw truth and
honour and goodness gleaming like a halo around you--but this does
not explain it at all, really.  It is only that I love you
because--because I love you!"

"But--it is impossible!"

"No, not impossible.  It is true.  Norah, look me in the face, and
you will see that I am in earnest.  Ah! give me your hands--no, you
shall not deny me!  Yes, you see now--you know now.  And _I_ know
that if those eyes of yours do not shine for me, then I shall be for
ever in the darkness!"

A low wail, as of a creature in agony, rises from the girl's lips, as
she passionately tears her hands from his grasp and in a moaning
voice echoes his words:

"_For ever in the darkness!_  Oh, my God!"

"Number One, are you there?  Where are you?"

Confound the fellow!  Stapleton recognises the voice of
assistant-paymaster Merritt; and hears also Dale telling him:

"He's in there, behind the curtain."

Stapleton had always rather liked Merritt up to the present.  But at
this moment he hates him, with a fierce and bitter hatred.  A feeling
which only grows more intense when that youth drags aside the curtain
and says "Oh, sorry!" with a silly grin that closes again like an
elastic band, though not without an evident effort; adding in an
attempt at an official voice:

"The captain has sent me to say that he wishes you to bring Miss
Norah Sheridan to his cabin so that he may complete his report; he is
afraid Miss Netta is not well enough, so he will not disturb her."

"Oh, confound the captain!  But where duty calls I must obey, and all
that sort of thing.  Miss Sheridan, may I show you the way?"

They find the wardroom empty as they go towards the door, excepting
for the presence of Dale and Netta Sheridan, who are sitting very
quietly.  The surgeon is keeping an eye on his charge, but is not
bothering her with too much talk; she is far from having recovered
her strength.  The other officers have quietly vanished, being of the
opinion that now Sheridan has been called away by the captain they
can be of very little use, and that to use a vulgar expression, their
room is worth more than their company.

So, inwardly fuming at his ill-luck in being interrupted at such an
inopportune moment, Stapleton leads the way to the captain's cabin.




CHAPTER V

But no sooner has the door closed on the retreating pair than Netta
Sheridan, reclining languid and half-dozed on the settee, astonishes
the surgeon and Merritt by suddenly springing to her feet and
exclaiming:

"Oh, save her!  Save us!"

Merritt, fatuous youth, once more executes his india-rubber grin,
subsiding instantaneously again into seriousness, and murmurs
faintly, "Gosh!"

"Oh, help me!" cries the girl again--"listen to me--I must speak!"

"Buck up--I mean pray don't be alarmed," exhorts the
assistant-paymaster with a well-meaning effort to say the right
thing; "you're quite all right, you know.  It's all over now, you're
perfectly safe!"

"Don't speak to her like that," Dale admonishes him, with a nudge of
his elbow, "you're only frightening her.  Miss Sheridan, there is
really no cause for you to disturb yourself.  Your cousin has only
gone with your brother into the captain's cabin to tell him about
what has occurred.  She will be back in a few minutes.  Please sit
down again and rest."

"Oh, you don't understand--you won't understand!  Listen, I beg you
listen to me.  I cannot bear it any longer.  I thought I should be
able to do it, but I can't, oh, I can't!"

"Why, what is the matter," soothingly questions the doctor.  "What is
it that you can't do?"

The girl answers him in a quick rush of excited speech:

"It is my brother Patrick who is at the bottom of it all.  Ah, the
terrible man he is, indeed!  _He_ thought of it, and he _made_ us do
it.  I was always against it, but what chance had I?  Norah he
persuaded--but you mustn't blame her.  And, oh, don't tell her I told
you--and don't let _him_ know it!  I am afraid of him, I always have
been.  If he tells me to do a thing I have to do it; it has always
been like that.  I am afraid to go against him.  Oh, stop him
quickly, before it is too late!"

"Ah," says Merritt, shaking his head wisely.  "that hot brandy!  I
_knew_ it was too much for her!"

"Dry up, you ass," says Dale; and turning again to the distracted
girl asks in the tone of one who wishes to humour an unbalanced
patient:

"But you haven't told us yet what is wrong?"

Surely it is nothing but the delirious ravings of a mind thrown quite
out of gear by suffering to which the poor girl gives vent.

"We're not shipwrecked people at all, we're only--only pretending.
We have not been torpedoed--we were not in any steamer to _be_
torpedoed; we were brought to sea by a motor launch, with the boat
you found us in towing behind.  We knew to half an hour what time you
would be passing.  Oh, I always said it was a hateful
scheme--_wrong_, too!  Is Patrick coming?  Don't let him hear
me--don't let him know I have been talking to you.  I'm terrified of
him!"

"What _do_ you mean?" cries the puzzled surgeon.

"Patrick planned it all," goes on the girl, now thoroughly wound up
and seemingly not noticing the interruption.  "It was his idea
entirely.  He arranged everything, even to making us dress--as you
saw us.  It is a plot--a plot to blow up your ship!"

"Christmas!" ejaculates Merritt, his mouth wide open in astonishment.

"But it _is_ so, I tell you," cries the girl, turning round upon the
incredulous youth.  "You don't know what Patrick is, or how he hates
the English!  We all do.  _Any_ ship would have done, but we got to
know about yours, we knew just when you would be sailing.  It is all
planned out.  Norah is to do it.  she has the bomb, because Patrick
thought she would have a better chance of putting it somewhere while
he would be talking with the captain and making up a story about the
shipwreck.  It is to go off two hours after it is set.  Oh, we knew
you would find some means of putting us on shore--though Patrick and
Norah both said they were ready to take their chance of that!  Oh, I
cannot stand it any longer!  I cannot allow it to be done!  Quickly!
Patrick is with your captain at this very moment.  Find Norah and
stop her!"

The torrent of wild words that has fallen from the girl's lips
suddenly ceases and leaves her exhausted and collapsed.  She reels,
and would fall fainting but for Dale catching her in his strong arms
and lowering her gently to the settee.

"Well, I'm blest!" exclaims the assistant paymaster.  "Rum yarn that!
Why, the poor girl must have gone completely off her rocker!"

"And so would you," Dale remarks, "if you had been shipwrecked and
tossed about in an open boat all day like she has!  Her nerves are a
little overstrained, that's all.  She will forget all about this in a
few days, most likely.  Bear a hand, and we'll carry her into my
cabin and let her lie down quietly for a while till the destroyer
comes.  It's too stuffy in here, enough to upset anybody!"

"Yes, it is pretty frowsty.  No wonder, with such a fire blazing.
And on the top of the hot brandy, too!"  So saying, Merritt helps the
doctor to support the unconscious girl, and between them they bear
off their burden to the cooler atmosphere of the surgeon's cabin.

Needless to say, Dale gives no more credence to the poor girl's
ravings than Merritt.  He knows, from his professional experience,
how an overstrung imagination can invent the most circumstantial
story and garnish it with a wealth of petty details to give it an air
of truth, insomuch that one would be almost inclined to believe it,
were it not for the fact that the story thus elaborated is usually
wildly improbable to start with.  Strange indeed are the tricks that
the mind can play, under the influence of suggestion, even
auto-suggestion.

Dale can remember, from his own experience, a dozen cases no less
curious than this.  There is nothing wonderful or unusual about it,
to his trained mind.  And as he has a practical task in front of him,
he quickly dismisses all thoughts concerning the vapourings of the
poor girl's disordered brain.




CHAPTER VI

Having concluded their interview with the captain in his cabin and
given him a full account of everything connected with their terrible
misadventure, Patrick Sheridan and his cousin Norah make their way
back to the wardroom together with Stapleton.  He, poor fellow, has
been pacing impatiently up and down the flat outside the captain's
cabin, cooling his heels while the others are inside making their
report.  His presence there has not been invited, and all his
ingenuity fails to find a pretext for entering unasked; neither is he
willing to lose the slender chance of a last few words alone with
Norah.  And so he remains walking to and fro in the flat, to the
unspoken wonder of the marine sentry who is not accustomed to see the
first lieutenant of the ship spending his time in this fashion.

But he has not long to wait.  In a few minutes the captain's door
opens to let the strangers out; and seeing Stapleton there on the
spot, Captain Blake is well content to hand them over again to his
care, excusing himself from attending them on the grounds that he
must put the written statements in order and lock them away in a safe
place.  Adding as he bows them out of the room:

"But I shall see you again in a few minutes, before you leave us.
The destroyer cannot be long now--indeed, she should have been here
by this time; but I expect this thick weather has delayed her."

Poor Stapleton!  All his attempts to detach Norah from her cousin on
the way back to the wardroom prove quite unavailing.  Given a little
longer time he would no doubt find some excuse for doing so; but the
distance is so short that he is unable to hit upon any plausible
expedient before the three are once more in the now deserted
wardroom; and there, of course, any _tête-à-tête_ is now quite out of
the question.

Despairing of this, though he greatly longs for it, he makes the best
of a bad job, and like the good fellow he is applies himself
whole-heartedly to the more prosaic task of ensuring the comfort of
the wayfarers on their journey to the shore and afterwards.

So, no longer the lover but for the time being the plain practical
man of sound common sense, he enquires:

"Now, what about money?  Of course, you will need some when you land,
and it's quite certain you haven't any with you now; better let me
lend you some to carry on with till you get to your home."

"No, no!" cries the girl vehemently, shrinking back as though the
offer were positively repugnant to her.  "We cannot take it from you!
We shall be able to manage somehow!"

And yet the offer is a kindly one, and, in fact, a very obviously
practical one under the circumstances.  Why, then, should she display
such a horror of accepting it?

It must be just her sensitiveness, a reluctance to take money from a
stranger, Stapleton thinks; half inclined to smile at the fierceness
of the refusal; but recollecting the severe strain to which her
nerves have been put to-day he readily attributes it to this cause,
and gently insists:

"Why, you need not mind, surely, taking it from me as a loan?  I am
not giving it to you, and you can send it back as soon as ever you
get to your friends again."

But Norah shakes her head, and would refuse for the second time but
for the fact that she seems unable to find words under the stress of
her deep emotion.

However, Patrick Sheridan is troubled by no sensitive scruples, and
effectually puts an end to her vain resistance by the gentle yet firm
rebuke,

"What nonsense, Norah!  Don't be so foolish; it is a very sensible
and kind offer, and I shall be very grateful to accept it.  And
though I shall of course return the money at the earliest possible
moment, I shall still be in your debt for your great kindness--we all
of us will be, and that's a fact.  But where's Netta?  I don't see
her here.  What can have become of her?"

"Yes, where is she?" echoes Norah anxiously.

"I don't know.  Anyhow, she can't be very far away; but she had
better be ready, the destroyer can't be more than a very few minutes
now.  Would you like me to go and look for her?"

"Oh yes, _please_ do."

"I'd be greatly obliged if you would, then."  Both the man and the
girl appear equally desirous, even anxious, judging by the way they
speak; but somehow or other Stapleton gets the impression that while
Norah's wish is for Netta's presence, Sheridan on the other hand
merely wants to get rid of him.

This is no time, however, to analyze motives, and Stapleton merely
remarks on his way to the door,

"All right.  And I'll get some money at the same time.  I won't be
more than a couple of minutes."

Hardly has he gone out when a marine sentry enters, and announces the
message he has been ordered to give:

"First lieutenant, sir?  From the officer of the watch.  The
destroyer is just coming alongside to take the party ashore."  The
stolid marine speaks as though it were just a matter of conveying the
guests at a Spithead wardroom tea-party back to Southsea pier, and
evidently thinks that sending back from the high seas in a destroyer
a party of shipwrecked people is no more than part of the ordinary
routine of the ship.

It is not till he has come to the end of his message that he
perceives he has delivered it in vain, and with a smart "Beg pardon,
sir, I thought he was in here," he turns to go.

"No, he's not here," Sheridan informs him, pointing to the other
door, "he went out that way, only a moment ago."  The sentry thanks
him, salutes again, and departs in the direction indicated; Sheridan
following him with his eyes till the door closes, leaving him alone
with Norah.

Then suddenly he becomes transfigured.  His calmness leaves him, and
he becomes in an instant a different being, a fierce wild creature
with whitened face and blazing eyes.  And when he turns to speak to
the girl at his side his voice comes in a hoarse whisper:

"_Now, Norah, quickly!_  There's no time for you to choose a better
place.  Bad luck to the captain for getting us out of it so soon--I
never thought it would be a rush like this!  You will just have to
put it down here somewhere--anywhere, so long as it is out of sight.
_Make haste, girl!_"

Who is this girl who stands here with pallid lips and great burning
eyes, erect and majestic as a priestess of some ancient faith--and
yet with a shade of fear in her face like a priestess who shrinks at
the very moment of sacrifice?  Can it be the same Norah Sheridan
whose sweet dark loveliness only just now won her a knight errant at
first sight--yes, and more than a knight errant, a lover for life?

And what is this thing she plucks from her bosom with tremulous
fingers--a wicked looking flat steel box, engraved with numerals and
fitted with a strong spring lying fiat to its side?

Boldly she drags it from its soft, warm hiding place; and then,
suddenly, all her boldness vanishes when she sees the accursed thing
actually before her eyes.  She looks wildly around her, and--and
hesitates.

"Down there, look, behind that bookcase," the voice of her
overbearing companion urges her.  "Hurry now!  Set it for two hours;
you know how.  By that time it will be quite dark, and all that are
in her will be sent to the bottom for ever!"

Ah, that he should have made choice of these words of all others to
screw the courage of his accomplice to the sticking-point!  Their
effect is none other than to awaken an echo of a voice heard but just
now and forgotten a moment later; a manly voice, but yet a pleading
one, whose low insistent tones had framed the entreaty.

"_--if those eyes of yours do not shine for me, then I shall be for
ever in darkness!_"

Yes, indeed, for ever in the darkness; and hers the hand to send him
there, him and all others in the ship with him!

Sheridan has crept round the long table and stands listening at the
door, holding the handle so as to delay for a second or two longer,
if need be, anyone who should enter before the deed is quite
accomplished.

From that vantage-point he turns an angry face towards the girl who
still stands nerveless and threatening to fail him just at the
culminating moment when the hazardous scheme bids fair to result in
complete success.

So overwrought with passion is he that when he essays to whisper the
words come from his dry lips more like a hiss.

"Make haste, curse you!  They'll be here before you can do it if you
don't hurry!  Put it down I tell ye!"

"Ah, no, no!"  A moaning sob mingles with the low-spoken refusal.

Sheridan gasps, at his wits' end for fear the diabolical plan is
going to fail even now at the very last.

No, not quite at his wits' end.  He has still another card to play:
and he plays it, quietly, persuasively, with all the consummate art
he has at his command:

"Ah, then, is it hesitate ye would?  Have you forgotten your own
father shot down in cold blood in the streets of Dublin by the brutal
English soldiers?  Murdered, with all his sins upon him!  Have you
forgotten your mother, the heart of her broken by the cruel deed, and
she falling dead across his grave the day they buried him?  Can ye
not hear them crying out to you now?  Take shame to yourself,
girl--what kind of daughter is it ye are to play the weak fool now
that the chance of vengeance is in your very hands?"

He has struck the right chord, as well he knew he would.  An
answering vibration stirs the girl's heart-strings and thrills her to
her inmost soul.

Once more she becomes the inspired priestess, and steels herself to
the dread sacrifice; her eyes glow with the flame of revenge, and
sternly she declares: "I'll do it!  Yes--I will!"

"That's right!  But for the love of heaven make haste--the destroyer
must be alongside by now, and that young fool of an officer will be
back with Netta any moment!"

Brought back to memory again!  Just when she thought she had
succeeded in crushing down and forgetting the thought of him!

"Ah, and he too will die!" she cries, dropping her hands limply to
her sides.  "No, Patrick, I--I cannot do it!"

"Fool!  Set down the bomb at once, I tell you!  Or if you are afraid,
give it to me!"

"No, no--it shall not be.  'Tis more than I can do, Pat.  I cannot--I
will not!"

"Give it to me, I say!  Curse you, give it to me at once--I hear them
coming for us."

Indeed, he is telling the truth.  Norah can hear them, too.  Yet they
delay.  Their voices and the sound of their footsteps are plainly
audible, but something detains them--oh why, why will they not come
in?

All at once a light breaks over the unhappy girl's face.  No need to
wait for help--how foolish of her not to have thought of this before!
Now that her mind is made up, the way of salvation lies open and
ready before her.

Yes, open and ready, literally.  The open scuttle is but a few feet
distant from her.  She has but to throw the evil thing that rests in
her hand out through this porthole, and the vile secret will be
buried in the sea for ever, with all its dreadful purpose frustrated.

But Patrick is no fool.  He divines instantaneously his cousin's
purpose, from the expression on her face and the sudden light in her
eyes.

Now or never is his chance.  He takes it, heedless of the steps now
at the very threshold.  Leaping across the table he closes with the
girl and seizes her wrist as her hand is now at the open scuttle.

A moaning cry, and an instant's struggle.  No more is possible.
Across the room, the door is flung open and the officers come
trooping in.

"So sorry to have kept you waiting such a long time," surgeon Dale
apologises.  "The other young lady felt faint, and so we took her
away from this hot room.  I'm afraid she is still not quite herself
though ever so much better.  We've taken her on board the destroyer
and she is lying down there and quite comfortable.  I've seen to it
all myself."

"Yes, she'll be quite all right, I assure you," adds the first
lieutenant.  "And now, if you are ready, will you both of you come
along?"

This then is the explanation of the delay outside the door.  A train
of unhappy incidents, indeed!  How fate hangs upon the most trifling,
unimportant things!  The safety of a ship and the lives of all her
crew to depend on the fainting of an overwrought girl: no wonder they
speak of the Irony of Fate!




CHAPTER VII

A high-spirited, deeply sensitive girl, caring nothing for such blows
and buffetings as life may please to deal her so long as they touch
herself alone, but very keenly alive to the wrongs and injuries of
others--especially those near and dear to her.  Such is Norah
Sheridan, and such has she been from her childhood.

Hers is a poor little life-story; rather sordid, and rather pathetic.
It is a record of things that might easily have been so different,
that ought never to have been as they were.  The record of a life
spent under conditions of topsy-turveydom, under the guidance of a
wrong-headed charming fool whom no one could ever advise: a man who,
with a brilliant intellect and immense powers of perception could
always be counted on to do the wrong thing under all possible
circumstances.  It is, to say the least of it, a heavy handicap to
have such a man for a father!

His course of conduct, pursued consistently all through his life,
speaks the nature of the man.  Daniel Sheridan while still a
youngster, is offered by a distant English relative a well-paid post
on a big estate; he refuses and elects instead to pick up the
scantiest of livings in the shady by-paths of literature--for which
he has not even a natural aptitude.

In the course of his career he falls under the influence of the
craziest firebrands of his countrymen, and imbibes a fierce hatred
against a land which has never done him the slightest harm in the
world.

After a while he migrates to this same hated land, settles down there
in the most elegant poverty, and remains there happily for the rest
of his life!  He even marries an English girl, he is on the best of
terms with his English neighbours; he makes many close friends
amongst the English; if he has to leave the country to go to the land
of his birth he always comes back again with all possible speed and
with most obvious content.  But, in spite of these things, it must
always be quite clearly understood that he hates England.  Oh
yes,--and he writes endless poems on this theme, for now he has
become--by correspondence--one of the inner set of the Irish
"Intellectuals," and his own contribution to the new learning takes
the form of quite brilliantly clever but equally unwarranted poetry,
which no one will ever read unless it be his fellow Intellectuals;
and they are for the most part too busy writing their own works of
burning genius to read those of anyone else.

It is these same pungently clever poems that are the cause of his
daughter Norah's first enmity against society.  Her first childish
recollection is that of seeing her father angrily rending the reviews
which have slated his works or worse still have treated them to a few
lines of insipid comment, and of hearing him break out into a tirade
against the dull-witted English who are too jealous or too brainless
to appreciate works entirely devoted to their abuse.  She sees him
fling himself out of the house in a passion--and cannot follow him in
his encounter ten minutes later, with three or four cronies of the
theoretically hated Sassenach race with whom he discusses
rose-growing and the pre-Raphaelites with the utmost amiability and
complete forgetfulness of his financial and literary troubles.  For
Norah there only remains seared on her brain the memory of her
father's bitterness.

And the knowledge of his poverty.  That of course, is an ever present
fact.  How the man manages to live he alone knows--he, and possibly
that distant English relative whose kindness was not soured by
Daniel's youthful refusal of his offer of work.

What more natural than that the grinding poverty and the conspiracy
to throw contempt on the genius of the brilliant Irish poet should
always be attributed in the girl's mind to the despicable tyranny of
the English despots?  Her father has stated the fact a thousand times
in her hearing, and therefore, it must be so.

True, there have been moments when this theory has not appeared to
fit in altogether with her own reading of the facts of life.  For
example, it is difficult to reconcile it with the witness of her own
English mother, who is neither tyrannical, despotic, nor despicable;
but the sweetest and most adorable mother in the world.

Only once did the puzzling contrast vent itself in an open question:
and that only after many days of silent heart-burnings:

"Mother darling, _are_ the English all as horrid and hateful as Daddy
says they are?"

Mother darling finds it hard to reply.  She is somewhat of a
weakling, though a very dear and good woman; and much as she loves
her little daughter she is still more devoted, even ridiculously so,
to her fascinating irresponsible husband whose rodomontades she can
assess at their true value.  Loyalty to him constrains her to reply
with a weak compromise:

"Not _all_ of them perhaps, dearest one; but I do not like to hear my
little girl questioning the truth of what she hears her father say."

Amiable fool!  Or, perhaps it may be kinder to say, fond foolish
loving heart!  The result is, of course, that Norah grows up from
childhood to girlhood all aflame with the sense of bitter injustice
done to her father, and accepts the alleged cause of it without
further questioning.

Occasionally she takes a trip to Ireland in company with her father.
And once is left behind with some Irish cousins for six months while
he returns to his home in England.

This visit has a great and lasting effect on Norah's character.
Those sentiments which were up till now merely fluid and formless
become crystallised, assuming a very definite shape--and hardness.

To begin with, she is greatly delighted at being able to have a
friend of her own sex in the person of her cousin Netta: she has
never had a girl friend before--indeed no friend of any sort except
her own parents; seclusion and poverty coupled with pride and
gentility do not tend much to the promotion of friendships.

So Netta comes into her life almost as a revelation.  Intercourse
with another girl opens up a vista of happiness hitherto almost
undreamt of.  What Netta does and what Netta says become in the first
flush of the newly-formed attachment a perfect model and a true
gospel.

What Netta says, unfortunately, is often no more than an echo caught
from the dark sayings of her elder brother Patrick.  There are but
these two, brother and sister, the former older by some fifteen years
than Netta.  To the authority due to his greater age, is added the
weight of a dominating character, sombre and gloomy.

Like his Uncle Daniel, Norah's father, whom he nearly equals in age,
Patrick Sheridan is a professed hater of England and all things
English.  But the difference between the two men is just this, that
whereas in Daniel the professed hatred dissipates itself in an
effervescence of words, in Patrick it is a living faith, the guiding
motive of his whole life.  He is misguided, unreasonable, fanatical,
anything you like; but at least he is sincere and lives for his
convictions.  He despises the dilettante nationalism of his poetical
cousin, and only waits for the day to put his professions into
practice.

In Norah he finds the ground already prepared by the willing though
shallow tillage effected by Netta's feeble copy of his words and
sentiments.  Patrick enters the field with all the forcibility of his
overwhelming character, digs furiously and deeply into the soil,
breaks it up and turns it over effectively to absorb the air of his
stormy reasonings, and sows it well with the seeds of his political
faith.

Norah was ready from the first to give him hero-worship; but the
effect of the two highly-strung dispositions meeting together is
something far more tempestuous and forceful than what she was
prepared for.  She finds herself carried off her feet and swept away
by the violence of the man's passionate character.

To a certain extent she is repelled by him; his thoughts and words
are so dark and malignant.  But in spite of this she never for a
moment hesitates to follow him implicitly in his devious paths.
Where he leads she must perforce follow.

And always for this reason above all others: that he is continually
sounding the chord of injustice, tyranny, and oppression, a chord
which finds an immediate response in her sensitive soul.

Thus is worked out by degrees the result, strange but not
unintelligible, of a pure and high-minded young girl devoting herself
to black dishonour for honour's sake, calling evil good and good evil
from motives which seem to her lofty beyond all others, hypnotised by
morbid suggestion into a state of mind where the gravest
inconsistences are possible.  And at last all her whole being is so
lulled into this dangerous somnabulistic state that only two things
remain to be made clear, two questions to be answered--will her dark
dreams take form in action?  And will she ever awake again to her
true self?  Ah, the awaking is to come, indeed, but too late!  First
comes the dreadful deed; and it comes as the culmination of a great
tragedy in Norah's young life.

A tragedy to her; to her father it is a tragedy made ironical by the
intermingling of farce, consistently with all his career.  Such as
his life has been, such is his death.

Going over to Ireland on one of his periodical visits, Daniel
Sheridan has no deeper purpose than that of interviewing a publisher
who, to his great surprise, has made him quite a favourable offer for
his latest volume of poems.  Such a thing has never happened to him
before, and it almost seems as though the tide is turning and setting
in the direction of prosperity.  The reason is really not far to
seek.  The cult of Irish letters has lately spread from an
insignificant circle of literary people to widen out and embrace
almost the whole of the nation.  A real native Irish poet above the
class of minor rhymesters is just what the nation has been crying
aloud for, and in Daniel Sheridan the nation's literary aspirations
bid fair to be realised.

The poet is almost beside himself with joy at his pleasant prospects.
Not only does he secure a substantial sum for his present work, but
he also carries away with him a very handsome offer for his literary
output of the next two years.  He looks forward to spending his
remaining days in England with ease and comfort, and sketches many a
rosy picture of the future.

What he does not quite understand, however, is the extent to which
the intellectual movement in his native land is intertwined with
political aspirations.  And subsequently, when carried away by the
stream of Patrick's wild oratory and the enthusiasm of his other
intellectual associates he finds himself drawn into the whirlpool of
a Dublin riot on the larger scale, he is to the last unable to
discriminate entirely between what is the desire to revive the
ancient glories of the land of saints and scholars, and what is mere
hot-headed revolt.

Still in this state of indecision he unfortunately gets in the way of
a bullet not intended for him, and never knows for what cause he lays
down his life.

But when he is lowered into his grave by a band of sworn
patriots--and when his weak and adoring wife, bereft of her pillar of
life, collapses and dies heart-broken at the very graveside, Norah
clutches at the hand of her cousin Patrick and looks at him from that
moment onwards to help her in her sacred quest for justice and
vengeance.




CHAPTER VIII

First the deed, and then the awakening.  And, what a terrible
awakening!

The destroyer is racing back to the base: for the mist has now
cleared and high speed is once more possible.

Norah, in the tiny wardroom which has been given up to the three
passengers, is a prey to the most poignant remorse and anxiety.

She sits with bowed head, her eyes fixed in a steady gaze yet seeing
nothing; her arms, stretched put limply before her with the clasped
hands lying in her lap would seem nerveless and lifeless but for the
perpetual wreathing and untwining of her restless fingers, the
outward symbol of the working of her tortured brain.

No gentle waking, this, no gradual realisation of the truth by means
of observations gathered here and there and ideas slowly
accumulating, such as is granted to many a one whose whole life is
changed and reversed.  Let this girl's past be condemned as
pitilessly as you will, yet there must be some pity for the cruel
shock of this blinding light that has suddenly blazed in upon her
darkened mind.

Not two hours ago she was a devoted instrument of righteous
vengeance, vowed to a high task whose awful nature inspired her all
the more deeply.

Now, she sees very clearly the utter enormity of the thing she had
planned to do.  She realises the baseness of the deed itself, and the
full extent of the dreadful consequences of it.  But most of all she
loathes and despises herself for having ever been so warped and
twisted mentally as not to have known herself for what she was.

Her self-scourgings are, as with most penitents in the zeal of new
conversion, laid on with too heavy a hand.  She is to blame, indeed,
but not so greatly as she now imagines, not so greatly as those who
have moulded her to their own evil pattern.  The truth was in her
always, stirring to burst from this false mould--else how has she
broken free now at the very moment when temptation was at its
strongest?

Yet she will not spare herself nor accept a single drop of the balm
of self-pity.  All excuses she thrusts from her, before there is time
for them to become properly visualised.

"_I did not do it--that at least is true._

"_But I meant to.  Though I had days and weeks to think it over, I
really meant to do it.  And even at the very last moment, or almost,
I still clung to my purpose._

"_Yet--after all, I changed my mind._

"_Yes, but why?  Was it because I saw the enormity of the crime I was
about to commit?_

"_Partly that; but not altogether.  It was through an accident--the
accident of a man looking at me in the way he did.  And if I was
hindered merely by an accident, then my real intention remains
unchanged, and I am as guilty as though the deed were actually done._"

--And so on, in endless self-torment.

Happily for her, she is not allowed to continue without intermission
in her bitter reflections.  There are two of the destroyer's
officers, a surgeon-probationer, and a midshipman, who are not on
duty and are therefore free to attend to the comfort and well-being
of their guests, a task which they feel it incumbent upon them to
perform with all the hospitality at their command.

These two seem to think they must lend their presence and the
consolations of cheerful small-talk as much as possible; and although
the surgeon-probationer disappears from the little wardroom from time
to time in order to give an eye to Netta who is lying exhausted in
the destroyer captain's cabin, he soon darts back again and joins the
midshipman in a well-meaning attempt at inducing cheerfulness.

It is an uphill task, certainly.  Patrick is even more silent and
moody here than he was on board the _Marathon_.  He answers in gruff
monosyllables to such remarks as are addressed to him, and never
advances a single observation on his own account.

So the two young officers soon give up the attempt in his case, and
turn all their energies upon Norah.  The more readily since beauty in
distress is very much more attractive than a surly unprepossessing
man, and there can be no doubt either of Norah's distress or of her
beauty.

Patrick therefore, is left to the material consolations of a whisky
bottle and a soda syphon, which his hosts feel confident must be what
he needs in a case like this.  And it seems that they are not far
wrong, for the silent morose man does not decline the proffered
hospitality, but on the contrary pours out for himself glass after
glass--and the soda-water disappears a good deal more slowly than the
whisky.

Against her will, then, Norah is forced to join in conversation; or
rather to force herself to listen with just sufficient attention to
enable her to make suitable replies when speech is demanded of her.
It is a trying ordeal for the unhappy girl; but a merciful one in
reality, for probably this enforced concentration is just the one
thing that keeps madness at bay.

Yet all the time she is consumed with a gnawing anxiety.  There is a
question she would give almost anything to be able to answer:

She herself was providentially foiled in her dread attempt; but--did
Patrick succeed in bringing it to completion?

When he wrested the bomb from her grasp the moment before the
_Marathon's_ officers came into the wardroom, _what did he do with
it?_

She knows he could not have disposed of it in the room itself; for
they left on the instant, and Patrick preceded her so that she was
able to keep her eyes on him the whole time.

But afterwards?  When they were out in the less brightly lit
alleyway?  Or during the few minutes' delay before they actually left
the ship to go on board the destroyer?

There might have been an opportunity then; or was such opportunity
impossible on account of the presence of other people and Patrick's
ignorance of his surroundings?

He could not, surely, have just placed the bomb in any chance spot,
stooping quickly in an undetected movement amidst the crowd.  That
would have been to court discovery, almost to a certainty, and
Patrick would never be so simple as that.

Yet, was it not possible that his quick eyes might have been able to
spy a hiding-place into which he might slip his hand as he passed,
behind an arm-rack, under a steam-pipe, or some such likely corner?
If such a chance offered itself, be sure he must have taken it!

But oh, if only Norah could know for certain!

Instead, the miserable girl has to listen and reply to the kindly
talk and questionings of her two well-intentioned hosts.  And, worse
still, out of sheer politeness she has to recount at their eager
enquiry all the wretched falsehood of the torpedoed steamer.

To the ears of her auditors it is a romantic and exciting tale of
misadventure, and they press for the story in its entirety.

And Norah tells them.  She is not going to make a confession to these
two young officers, whatever she may do later.  This, at any rate, is
not the time nor the place.  And what other course is open to her?

Therefore, with wild abandonment she heaps up the agony of the tale,
repeating every detail of what has been already told to the
_Marathon's_ officers, and even adding more.

She feels, rather than sees, the glaring eyes of Patrick fixed upon
her face as she fires off the rapid narration of their pretended
sufferings; and somehow this keeps her from giving way to hysterical
shrieks and laughter as otherwise she would: but the compelling
glance restrains her.

But at what an effort!  And how thankful she is when, at the end of
it, her two listeners happen to go out of the room both together for
the first time, and leave her alone with her cousin!

This is the chance she has been waiting for.  Immediately, with one
rapid backward glance to make sure the two officers have really gone,
she strides quickly across to Patrick and grasping him by the
shoulder as though she would shake the answer out of him, asks in a
tense, quivering voice:

"Oh, Patrick, _did_ you do it?  Tell me!"

He shrinks from her grasp, and crouches back in his chair, glancing
upwards and sideways at the girl standing over him.  Hatred gleams
from his reddened eyes, the hatred of fanaticism made fiercer by the
unstinted whisky he has been drinking.  It is evident that he deems
the girl a treacherous renegade, and spurns her with loathing for her
having deserted the great Cause.

"For why should I tell you anything, wretched girl?" he mutters.
"You would only use it to betray me!"

"Oh, Patrick, tell me, tell me!"

"Curse you, keep away from me!  I want no speech with you, nor ever
to set eyes on you again.  No kith or kin are ye of mine from this
day on!  Leave me alone, I bid ye!"

Nor will he deign to open his lips to say another word.  Norah gives
a gesture of despair and with drooping head goes back to her place.

She had had her chance, and it has been of no avail.  A repetition of
it is not to be hoped for, even were there any hopes of its being of
any use, for the midshipman comes back again and soon his fellow
officer also joins him.




CHAPTER IX

On board the _Marathon_, as she speeds once more on her lawful
occasions, fore and aft throughout the ship all tongues are wagging
on the subject of the evening's occurrences.

As a general rule, life on board a man-of-war at sea passes without
any incident worthy of remark; and this is true to a great degree in
war time, just as much as in times of peace.  Anything therefore, so
out of the common as this timely rescue of shipwrecked people met
just in the nick of time provides welcome conversational material for
every officer and man; for naval men are, it is well known, the
biggest gossips in the world and can give points to any charwoman in
the art of discussing a bit of news from every imaginable point of
view.

Dinner has been cleared away, and the topic which has held sole sway
all through the meal is not yet exhausted.  Stapleton alone has taken
but little part in the talk; he is remarkably silent, for him--as a
rule he can find plenty to say for himself.  But, as a matter of
fact, he has not been listening much to the chattering voices around
him; his sole thought is, how different the wardroom looks now that
it no longer holds the presence of his beloved.

For she is his, he thinks.  Surely he is not mistaken in believing
that Norah really did understand him and was not entirely unmoved by
his sudden and violent love-making?  When two affinities meet like
this, it is as though their souls have been wandering through space
for countless ages in the endeavour to find each other; and when at
last the encounter takes place, it is inevitable that the truth
should come home with equal force to both of them.  So, at least,
thinks Stapleton; and he is convinced that Norah had not at any rate
looked upon him unkindly.  For the rest, he will make sure of things
at their next meeting.

But, good heavens!  Why--the thought has not struck him till this
moment--in spite of all his pressing entreaties.  Norah never told
him where she might be found!  Something happened--he cannot remember
exactly what it was--to change the conversation, and she left the
ship without giving him any clue as to where he may meet her again!

So then, he has lost her.  No--surely he will be able to find out
something when the ship returns to the base, something that will
enable him to trace her even though it may turn out to be a long job.
So he plucks up heart again.

These reflections are interrupted by a remark from Merritt:

"I say, that was a funny yarn of the fair-haired one, wasn't it?  I
wonder how anyone could have the imagination to invent such a pack of
stuff!"

Stapleton pricks up his ears.  "What yarn was that?" he asks.

Merritt is only too willing to repeat the story of Netta's delirious
ravings; but thinks it hardly fair on the girl to give her away in
the presence of so many of the other officers; Stapleton is
different--he can be trusted not to spread the yarn.  For all his
youthful simplicity Merritt has the delicacy to realise that Netta
would not be pleased if the story should travel back to her: as he
expresses it in his own mind, it would make her feel such a silly
fool!

So, with an apologetic "tell you presently," he glides gracefully to
another topic, and does not return to Netta's wonderful revelations
till the wardroom is emptied of all but Stapleton, Dale and himself.

"Well, what about this yarn of yours that you were so full of just
now?" queries the first lieutenant.

Merritt tells him.

"What an absurd story," comments Stapleton, when the other has come
to the end of his extraordinary narrative.  "How on earth could the
girl get such weird ideas into her head?"

"Purely and simply the result of the workings of a brain thrown out
of gear by physical suffering," Dale informs him; "sub-conscious
ideas come to the surface under such conditions, and the memories and
fancies gleaned from books, conversations, and a thousand similar
sources weave themselves together into a fabric which sometimes, as
in this present case, possesses a wonderful consistency."

"Pity she couldn't invent something a little more convincing while
she was about it," smiles Stapleton.

"How do you mean?  I thought it was rather a good effort, for a piece
of pure imagination."

"Well, yes; all but one thing.  Anybody that had the slightest
knowledge--real knowledge of the subject, would never have made such
a howler as to talk of blowing up a ship with a bomb small enough to
be concealed in one's clothing.  That's the weak point of the story
which gives it away at once."

"Oh, I don't know.  I wouldn't like to say that, exactly.  Modern
developments in high explosives have been pretty marvellous and
according to what I have read about these things I see no reason why
you shouldn't be able to pack into a cigarette-case enough stuff to
wreck all London."

"Yes, you could, certainly--in theory.  But when it comes to practice
you find yourself up against certain difficulties--the chief one
being that you would be almost dead sure to wreck yourself first.
Very powerful explosives are nothing new--take fulminate of mercury,
for instance; that is an old discovery, yet so tremendously potent
that a teaspoonful of it would be sufficient to blow this room to
blazes."

"If that's the case," asks Merritt, "why do you say that a
small-sized bomb couldn't be made with enough of it to blow up a
ship?"

"Because, my son, all these very high explosives are what is called
very _unstable_, they won't stand any knocking about.  Why, supposing
you had the teaspoonful of fulminate I spoke about, it would probably
explode if someone were to slam the door or even walk across the deck
with a heavy tread.  So you see, you can't put stuff of that sort
into bombs and cart it round with you."

Dale has an objection to make, as a scientist.  "What you say is true
enough, Number One, but only as far as our knowledge goes at present.
There has been a lot of progress made lately in these affairs and
what I say is that there is no reason why someone should not have
discovered a means of overcoming the instability."

"Someone such as----?"

"Oh, possibly one of those German chemists; a secret of that sort
would be just the very thing they would be all out to discover.  It
would make a tremendous difference to them in this war.  It might,
for instance, encourage them to attempt just such a scheme as our
imaginative young friend raved about."

"You speak as though you were not entirely convinced that she was
raving, Dale."

Stapleton looks sharply at the surgeon as he snaps out these words.
The love which has sprung up in his heart makes him keenly jealous of
the least shadow of a slur being cast upon anyone belonging to her.

"Not at all, not at all!" rejoins Dale; "as a matter of fact, it was
the evident absurdity of the girl's story that convinced me of the
_bona fides_ of the party."

"What in the world do you mean?"--Stapleton has all his hackles up
now and is quite prepared to take serious offence.

"I mean," says Dale calmly, taking no notice of his friend's
annoyance, "that up to the time when the girl chucked her fit I was
rather inclined to think there was something darned fishy about the
whole affair; but no one in his senses could concoct such a
marvellous yarn as that one about a bomb and a plot and a motor-boat
and all the rest of it, so as soon as I heard it I knew that it was
nothing but delirium, and that proved to my mind that the three of
them had been through all that they said they had."

"And what was it, if I may ask, that made you suspicious at first?"
The first lieutenant is properly on his high horse now.

Indeed, the air appears so threatening that the assistant paymaster,
not willing to be dragged into a quarrel, thinks it opportune to make
himself scarce.  He has indeed, a very good excuse, as he is the
ship's Intelligence Officer and it is time for him to go to the
office beneath the fore bridge where he employs himself in that
capacity.

Stapleton, left alone with Dale, presses the question.

"There were one or two things that didn't seem quite to fit in, to my
mind," Dale replies.

"What things?"

"Well, one was that for people who had been drifting all day in an
open boat with hardly any clothing to speak of, and in this weather,
they didn't strike me as being quite so much done in as one might
expect.  The tall girl, the one you were so chummy with, for
instance----"

"Yes?  What about her?" almost ferociously.

"Eh?  What are you looking so shirty about?  I was only going to say
that she didn't look as if she had been under the weather to any
extent.  No more did the man.  Indeed, except for the fact that they
both had very red noses there didn't seem much matter with either of
them!"

An indignant snort is Stapleton's reply.  _Red noses!_  Norah's
nose--_red_, indeed!  He contrives to smother his indignation, and
remarks in an unnaturally calm voice:

"And the younger girl?  Perhaps you thought her, too, in a buxom
state of health, what?"

"No, of course not.  That's just what I told you--it was her evident
condition of collapse which told me that the others also must have
really suffered even if they didn't show it so much."

"How very observant of you!"--Stapleton is not showing the best side
of his character now.  It is unlike him to sneer in this way, and to
quarrel with his old friend; but love is responsible, very often, for
upsetting people's tempers.

"And what else did you notice that was suspicious?" he goes on, still
aggrieved.

"Oh, that was the chief thing.  But there was another little point
also--didn't you notice it?--one of 'em said their ship was torpedoed
at five o'clock, and the other, your girl, I think it was--said
seven."

"_My girl!_" echoes Stapleton, now thoroughly angry.  "I can see no
occasion for _coarseness_ on your part, Dale, and I'll thank you not
to speak of the lady again in that way!"  A curious point to quarrel
about, since if there is one particular light in which he regards
Norah Sheridan it is undoubtedly as _his girl_!  But again, there is
no accounting for the whimsies of a man in love.

"And what's more," continues the irate officer, "I consider you no
better than a suspicious-minded busybody to entertain for a single
moment such ideas as these.  They don't do you much credit, I must
say!"

Dale is surprised at the other man's vehemence.  "All right, old
man," he says kindly, "don't get annoyed about it.  Sorry if I've
said anything to offend you.  Anyhow, I've got to go for'ard to the
sick bay now, so you can just calm down and forgive me by the time I
come back."

He goes, leaving Stapleton still angry and unappeased.

Which is a very great pity.  Stapleton remembers this one-sided
quarrel afterwards with bitter shame and grief.

For it is the last time he ever sets eyes on his old friend.




CHAPTER X

Half-an-hour later Stapleton is sitting in his cabin in the after
part of the ship.

It is a pleasant little place to look at, with its shining
green-lacquered corticene deck and the framed pictures against the
white enamelled bulkheads.  In one respect it is very much like every
other naval officer's cabin; that is to say it makes a subtle
combination of elegance and severity.

The severity is provided by the plain Admiralty furniture, which is
designed rather for usefulness and hard wear than for ornament.
There is an austere looking kneehole table at one side of the cabin,
and on the opposite side a plain rectangular chest of drawers, made
of steel painted to look like mahogany and relieved by shining brass
drawer-handles.  The end of the narrow room, otherwise the ship's
side end, where the round scuttle gives light and air to the cabin,
is completely filled with a harrow bunk resting on top of a long
cupboard cunningly contrived with sliding shelves for holding uniform
and other personal gear.

Everything is arranged with this same cunning economy of space.  For
it must be understood that his cabin is the sole apartment that an
officer can call his very own, reserved for his own private use, and
it has to fulfil the functions of bedroom, drawing-room and study all
combined in one.  Witness the round tin bath which hangs from the
deck overhead, suspended by iron hooks, and the little mahogany
two-shelf book-case at the foot of the bunk; these are but a couple
of the incongruities to be found in that curious blend of rooms which
constitutes a cabin on board ship; and taken in conjunction with the
various adornments which the occupier introduces to beautify the
place, and give it a little reminiscence of home, they certainly must
strike the eye of a stranger as very curious indeed; but there is no
denying that the combined result is very attractive.

But there is one point which Stapleton's cabin offers a contrast to
most of those belonging to his brother officers throughout the navy;
there is no silver-framed photograph placed prominently upon the
kneehole table where the owner of the cabin, when busied in making up
his reports or in the more pleasant task of writing home letters, can
refresh himself by letting his eyes rest from time to time upon the
beloved features of wife or sweetheart.

No, Stapleton was speaking no more than the truth when he told Norah
that never before had he looked with love into a woman's eyes.
Possibly this explains why he has now taken such a bold and sudden
header into the dangerous alluring waters of desire; it very often
happens that way, doesn't it?

Yet, although he has not before him anything visible and tangible to
remind him of his beloved, he feels no need of any such outward
assistance.  Sitting at his writing-table with one hand supporting
his head and the other stretched out idly before him, he gazes upward
with a fixed and rapturous stare at the frosted bulb of an electric
light on the bulkhead in front of him; but it is quite evident that
his open eyes see nothing; nothing, that is, of a mere material
nature; their gaze is visualising, by the magic of love, the face and
form of that dark beautiful girl who has come into his life.

Perhaps it is as well that he does not see her as she actually is, at
this very moment, in the wardroom of the destroyer!

All his peevish annoyance with Dale has vanished completely.  As a
matter of fact, he has quite forgotten about it; and if Dale were to
remind him of it--and the surgeon, good-natured man, would be the
last person in the world to do such a thing--he would probably ask
with a laugh if it were really possible that he could have made such
a fool of himself as to get annoyed with his best pal over so
trifling a matter.

But he never gets this chance.  The thing happens with such terrible
swiftness that for a moment it is just a meaningless shock, too
sudden for the brain to comprehend.

Darkness, and a dull roar: a tinkle of breaking glass, and the deck
rising beneath his feet; a sharp blow on the back of his head with a
swift concussion of air which takes his breath away.  All happening
in an instant.  A bright purple light shines at the back of
Stapleton's eyes, changing quickly to a vivid orange and dissolving
into a million wandering specks of fire.

Then, as he picks himself up from the deck and comes again to his
senses, he realises that the electric lights have gone out and he is
in total darkness.

All this happens in the veriest flash of time; and even as he rises
to his feet, the whole cabin is still trembling, Stapleton realises
the meaning of it, and his brain is silently framing the word--

"_Torpedoed!_"

Speech comes thickly to his lips, and in a stupid dazed fashion he
keeps saying to himself, as he fumbles and gropes his way to the door
across the overturned furniture, "_Torpedoed!  My God, we've got it
this time: we're torpedoed!_"

No need for the loud ringing calls of "Clear lower deck," resounding
everywhere.  Stapleton himself joins in the cry: but already the
mess-deck ladders are thronged with men filing upwards in a constant
stream.  There is no crowding though, and no confusion.  The electric
lights have been extinguished here also, but a match struck here and
there, soon followed by a dozen more, make little points of light in
the general darkness, and a moment later the emergency candle lamps
are lit, and it is now possible to see more or less clearly and to
regulate better the human traffic.

"Steady, lads, steady--the old ship's not done for yet," rings out
the voice of Stapleton as he makes his way swiftly along the
mess-deck.  "Everyone on deck and get to your stations for abandoning
ship."

There is seriousness on all faces--so far as they can be seen in the
feeble light of the candles which cast thick massed shadows with
Dantesque effect upon the congregated men--but no sign of panic or
even of anxiety.  The British Blue takes the event with his
invincible calmness as something which is all in the day's work: he
is even a little elated and cheerful about it, or at any rate tries
to assume that appearance.

It is this feeling that cheerfulness is the proper thing under the
circumstances which causes one of the men to sing out the obvious
"_Are we down-hearted?_"  And the immediate answering chorus is cut
short by the first lieutenant's:

"That will do, lads.  Quietly does it--keep your breath, you may need
it presently."

He has made his way through the thronging crowd of men, and at the
foot of the ladder is assisted by the stentorian voice of a petty
officer which rings out, "Gangway there!  Make way there for the
first lieutenant!"  He knows, as do all the men, that if their
officer wishes to force his way on deck before the others it is not
for the sake of saving his own skin, but in order that he may take
charge of affairs and give orders for the safety of all.

From the moment of groping his way out of his cabin till his foot
steps over the hatchway coaming on to the upper-deck less than a
minute has elapsed.  But Stapleton already finds that the ship is
down by the head and fears the worst.

Fortunately it is a clear moonlight night, and almost as bright as
day.  That makes things easier, as it is possible for all hands to
get their places and set about what has to be done with the least
possible difficulty.

As soon as he stands on the upper-deck Stapleton finds himself facing
one of the lieutenants.  It is Morley, who was officer of the watch
during the last doer, when that other exciting incident occurred, an
incident now forgotten and obliterated by a greater happening.

"Where is the captain--have you seen him anywhere?" is Stapleton's
first question.

"Killed I believe.  The foremast has gone over the side and carried
away the whole of the bridge.  What's left of it is on fire."

Little need to say that; a cloud of thick smoke obscures the fore
part of the ship, and even as Morley speaks a tongue of flame leaps
upward through the smoke, high into the air.

"Call away the fire party.  Take a few hands with you and go and see
if there is anyone left alive there--look out for yourself though.
Here, bugler"--the first lieutenant providentially descries a passing
bluejacket who is in fact looking for him--"sound the Still."

The clear notes of the bugle ring out, and there is silence
throughout the ship, fore and aft, save for the roar and crackle of
the gathering fire forward.

"Send the carpenter to me at once."

The warrant officer carpenter appears immediately in response to the
call, clattering down the foc'sle ladder and running smartly along
the deck to.  Stapleton.

The latter's unspoken question is anticipated and replied to in a few
brief words.

"Not a dog's chance, sir.  There's a hole in her side big enough to
drive a wagon through.  I give her ten minutes at the most; but she
may go any moment."

"Everybody up from the engine-room and stoke-hold.  Pass the word
quickly," orders Stapleton quietly.  And in response to the order
more men come quickly pouring up on deck.

The boats, meanwhile, have been swung outboard and lowered part way
down the ship's side.

The vessel begins to lose her way; the engineer officers, coming up
last of all those down below, have stopped the engines before
leaving, and have opened the valves so that from the escape-pipes at
the top of the funnels immense jets of steam pour forth like thick
white clouds into the air with a deafening, vibrating roar.

"Abandon ship!  Everyone down into the boats!"  The ominous order is
executed as though at general drill, and the men make their way
quietly into the boats.  Happily the ship is sinking by the head and
without any list to speak of, so there is no difficulty about getting
the boats into the water.  Morley comes back at this instant, and
reports that he has seen no one alive, nor indeed anyone at all,
alive or dead.

"The whole place is blazing," he says, "there is nothing left of it
at all.  The fore magazine must have been touched off by the
explosion of the torpedo.  As far as I can see, the foc'sle has been
blown off, or very nearly."

"The foremost bulkhead has gone, and the ship is filling quickly,"
adds the carpenter; the zealous individual, reckless of his own
safety, has been down below again to make another inspection and see
if there is any chance at all of keeping the ship afloat.  At the
first sign of the disaster, the unmistakable sound of the explosion,
the _Marathon's_ one remaining destroyer escort had circled round and
raced back to render assistance.  Now she has stopped her engines and
lies abreast of the cruiser, half a cable away.

Her searchlights are turned on the sinking cruiser, lighting up the
deck and the men now swarming down into the boats.

"Shall I come alongside to take you off?" shouts her commander
through a megaphone.

"No--keep away," answers Stapleton; "she may blow up as she goes
down.  We will pull off to you.  Keep your searchlights on the water
in case any of our boats get into trouble."

This is his last order.  With a nod to the other officers who are
remaining by him on deck he signs to them to get down into the boats.
Last of all, he leaves himself.

Most of the boats are already pulling away in the direction of the
destroyer.  Those which are still alongside unhook from the falls as
their officers jump into them, and follow as fast as the oars can
strike the water.

None too soon.  Scarce is the last boat fifty yards from the doomed
ship when the _Marathon_ plunges forward and dips half her length
into the water.  There is no further explosion--it is a quiet end for
the gallant ship.  For a few seconds her stern hangs poised almost
perpendicular in the air; then, with a forward glide, it sinks
beneath the waves, and the _Marathon_ has disappeared for ever.




CHAPTER XI

It is the afternoon of the following day.  A brilliant clear
afternoon without a cloud in the sky, and warm sunshine flooding the
calm blue sea and making the distant cliffs and islands of the naval
base appear as though they were made of delicately tinted enamels.
Such days are not infrequent in autumn even in the far north of
Scotland; they make a sort of fairy midsummer at a time when the icy
fingers of winter are already fast closing their grip upon the land.

In the sunshine it is quite hot; but directly one steps into the
shade one feels the chilly nip in the air, tingling and bracing.

That is why the matronly lady who has just dragged a couple of
deck-chairs across the grass from a building near by is careful to
place them well out in the sunlight, giving a careful glance to make
sure that no neighbouring shadow in its swift advance shall presently
cover the spot she has chosen.

Mrs. Shaw prides herself on being thoughtful about little details of
this sort.  And, indeed, her pride is thoroughly justified, for she
is an extremely capable lady as all her friends are willing to admit,
even though they may sometimes add that she is a trifle fussy.

However, her fussiness is always of a kindly type, like that of a
motherly hen in charge of a big brood of chicks.  And the chicks
which are dearer to her heart than any others are those big ones
whose plumage is the dark blue of the British sailor.

"What ever will you do now, without all your beloved sailor-boys to
look after?" said her friends when the first outbreak of war suddenly
spirited away the fleet and emptied the streets of our seaport towns
of all those fine lads whose neat blue rig had up till then made an
ever welcome relief to the sombre suits of the civilians.

"What will I do?" replied the energetic lady, "why, go after 'em, to
be sure!"

"Oh, but _how_?  Do you think the Admiralty will let you?"

"Hm!  If I want to go and be with my boys and the Admiralty stand in
my light, well, so much the worse for the Admiralty, that's all I've
got to say about the matter.  But they won't stand in my way--you can
always bluff these official people, if you know the right way to set
to work about it!"

"And what is the right way, Mrs. Shaw?"

"Meet officialdom with officialdom.  If I were to request permission
to go in a private capacity to run a home for sailors at one of their
precious secret bases, I should only get a polite snub and a very
definite refusal.  But if I can persuade one of the big societies to
let me join up with them--well, I'll stand the racket and the society
can take the credit so long as it lends its name and patronage.
That'll do the trick, I'll be bound!"

The event proved that Mrs. Shaw's psychology was not at fault.  Very
few ladies can boast of being present with the fleet in the early
days of the war and of sharing the secrets of the fleet's
hiding-places; but Mrs. Shaw and her helpers were amongst those few.

Her hut, the constant rendezvous of hundreds of bluejackets, bore the
name of a deservedly well-known society painted in big letters across
its tin roof; but to the men who frequented it and found in it a real
home it was known by no other name than that of "Mother Shaw's."

"Mother Shaw's" has been an established institution on the island for
a long time now; but Mother Shaw herself has never yet had to
undertake a job so much out of her ordinary line as that which is
occupying her this sunny autumn afternoon.

Having arranged the two deck-chairs with most precise care, she goes
back to the hut and emerges again with her arms laden with rugs and
cushions.  These also seem to need the skill of a master-mind to get
them into just the exact position, for Mrs. Shaw arranges and
re-arranges them with many a pat and a pull before they are settled
entirely to her satisfaction.

Once more she makes the short journey to the hut.  This time she
stays longer inside; and when she reappears she comes out arm in arm
with a tall dark girl who seems glad of her support.

It is Norah Sheridan.  She is very pale.  The strain of all she has
been through has left its mark upon her.  Yet she holds herself
gallantly, and though the drawn lips indicate the shame and anxiety
still gnawing at her heart she does her best to smile her gratitude
for Mrs. Shaw's kindly mothering, and speaks bravely and
cheerfully--when she can get a word in edgeways, which to tell the
truth is not very often.

She is dressed in a plain tweed costume which fits her graceful
figure to a marvel--better, indeed, than the girl for whom it was
originally made, one of Mrs. Shaw's young helpers who has come to the
aid of Norah's distinctly sketchy wardrobe.

The older woman settles her young charge into a deck chair, covering
her knees with a thick rug and arranging cushions behind her
shoulders and head.  Then she stands off and with a kindly scrutiny
reviews her work.

Apparently it satisfies even her exacting nature.

"There now, my dear," the good lady announces, giving the cushions
just one more pat, "I think you'll be snug enough like that!  Don't I
make a good nurse?  I ought to, considering the number of times I've
had to nurse my own daughter, a delicate girl of just about the same
age as you, my dear, but not nearly as good-looking, she takes after
me, the plain but useful type.  It takes all sorts to make a world,
doesn't it?  We can't all be good-looking!  Now, my husband was a
very handsome man, and my boys are exactly like him; I only had the
one girl, and she must needs go and turn after me!  Often the way,
haven't you noticed it?  It does seem a shame--what do boys want with
good looks?  They can get on perfectly well without 'em, whereas the
girls, poor things--but there, I managed to get married in spite of
my face, so perhaps it doesn't really matter so much, after all!  As
for you, I don't think girls of your type ought to be allowed at
large at all--you're a positive danger to society!"

Norah starts, and her hands grip the sides of her chair.  Her pale
face goes a shade paler still.  Mrs. Shaw's well-intentioned
flattering words have come home to her in a sense that was far from
the speaker's thoughts!

"Why, what's the matter with you, child?" the observant lady remarks,
"Cushions not very comfortable?  There, that'll be better.  Another
one just here under your back?  No?  Don't mind saying so if you
would really like one, I can easily get it for you.  Dear me, I can
see I shall have to take my broom to keep off all the young naval
officers from this place, or else you'll be wrecking the peace of
mind of the whole lot of 'em!"

"Do the officers come ashore here then, Mrs. Shaw?  I was hoping that
we might just remain here quietly and see nobody until we can get
away and go home."

"You need not see anyone if you really don't wish to do so, my dear.
I can always say you are not well enough--and it won't be much of a
fib either, because you certainly do look a poor wisht creature, and
I don't wonder at it after what you have been through.  But as soon
as it begins to get known that you are here I know I shall have my
work cut out!  I have three girls helping me here, and you would be
astonished at the number of naval officers who drop in to tea at the
hut now; they never used to come before those girls arrived on the
scene!  Of course, they all say that it is me they come to see, the
monkeys!"

"I hope I shan't see anyone.  I don't want to," repeats Norah in a
plaintive little voice.

"No?  Well, you shan't then, dear.  Of course not.  I'm not surprised
at your wanting to be as quiet as you can, after such a dreadful
experience.  Fancy your being picked up by the _Marathon_!  I have a
nephew on board that ship--a dear boy he is, too!"

"Have you, Mrs. Shaw?  Which is he?  I wonder if he was one of those
I saw?"--Norah somehow has a presentiment of what the answer is going
to be.  It was too much to hope for that she might flee away and hide
in obscurity.  Fate was bound to weave its cruel net of complications
around her feet; but oh, the irony of it, that this kind motherly
soul should be the one to commence the dreaded weaving!




CHAPTER XII

"Alick Stapleton is my nephew's name.  He is the first lieutenant of
the ship, so naturally you must have met him.  What did you think of
him?  Isn't he a dear fellow?"

"Oh, was that your nephew, Mrs. Shaw, the first lieutenant?  Yes, I
did meet him.  He was very kind to me--to all of us.  Indeed, I don't
know what I should have done if it had not been for him!"

This is not quite strictly true.  Norah does know very well what she
would have done if it had not been for Alick Stapleton: and even as
she utters these words of gratitude she is fully aware of the
sinister inner meaning which they conceal.

"I can quite imagine it!" answers Mrs. Shaw briskly.  "I daresay he
was good to you, the wicked scamp!  In my opinion, it is a very good
thing that the _Marathon_ will be away for some little time.  I'm
quite certain that if Alick were only to see you as you are looking
now he would fall in love with you at once, with those eyes of yours!
Well, well, I'm a garrulous old woman, am I not?  Gossiping here like
this when I ought to be working.  Though you know, my dear, I look
upon you as an out-and-out fraud!--Cushion slipping again?  How you
do start!  Nerves, I suppose.  You must be in a weaker state than I
imagined; I was just going to say that I didn't think there was
really very much the matter with you.  You're one of the strong kind,
not like your--your cousin, didn't you say she is?  Poor girl, in a
perfect state of collapse ever since she was carried on board that
destroyer last night--and I'm sure I don't wonder at it!"

"But she is better now, Mrs. Shaw, isn't she?  Thanks to your
kindness.  May I not see her presently?  Or isn't she well enough for
that yet?"

"Yes, yes, my dear, certainly you shall see her.  That's really the
reason why I've brought you out here, more for her sake than yours.
As soon as I can get her dressed I'm going to fetch her out here and
fix her up in this chair by your side, and you can have a good talk
to each other.  I thought it best to keep her in bed all the morning,
and she has been sleeping all the time till an hour ago, which proves
I was right in keeping her there."

"Will she be ready soon?  I should so like to see her!"

"Very soon now.  Fortunate, wasn't it, that the girls who are helping
me were able to rig you out with some of their clothes?  You would
have looked funny if you had had to get into some of mine!"

"You have all been awfully kind.  And there is just one thing more I
should like--couldn't you give me something to do while I'm sitting
out here?  I am quite strong and well, really I am.  There is nothing
the matter with me--except that I cannot bear to sit still, alone,
with my thoughts; it is quite unendurable!  Couldn't I do something?"

"Nonsense, my dear, you must really try and be more cheerful.  I
declare, you're looking utterly miserable!  You simply must make an
effort to calm yourself, you know!  And, if you want something to do,
you might go on with these sea-boot stockings for me.  Can you knit?"

With a woman like the indefatigable Mrs. Shaw one outlet for her
energies is not enough; so even while she is busying herself about
the thousand and one things connected with the management of the
sailors' hut she generally carries about with her a piece of knitting
to occupy her tireless fingers.

She has just such a piece now, and pulls it out from one of her ample
pockets and offers it to her patient, who grasps it eagerly,
exclaiming:

"Oh, yes, I can knit.  Let me have the stockings, do!"

"They are for our poor sailors," says Mrs. Shaw, beaming with
motherly kindness as she hands over the work; "I am sure you can
sympathise with them in all they have to go through, now that you
have experienced a little of it yourself.  I always feel that we can
never do enough for them.  Remember, what would be the fate of us
women if it were not for our sailors--_and_ our soldiers, God bless
them!  And so many of them have given up their lives for us, poor
gallant lads.  Killed, maimed, blown up, burnt, drowned----"

Norah springs to her feet, trembling all over, thrusting out her
hands as if to ward off some unseen evil.

"Oh, don't, don't!" she cries wildly.  "Can I not forget such horrors
for one single moment?  Why must you remind me of them?"  Then she
sinks back into her chair again, and seems to be ashamed of having
given way to such emotion; for she adds in a quieter voice, "Oh,
forgive me, Mrs. Shaw.  I did not mean to be rude to you, really I
didn't.  But I am--my nerves are----"

"Of course, of course, poor lamb!  You are not so strong as you think
you are.  I am a foolish old woman, and ought to have had more sense!
Hallo, there's someone coming!"

Norah follows with her eyes the direction in which Mrs. Shaw has
turned her head.  From the landing-place, out of sight beneath the
slope of the hill two men are approaching, two naval officers.  At
first, only their heads and shoulders are visible; but as they mount
the hill and come more into view they are recognised by Mrs. Shaw as
the admiral in charge of the base and his secretary.

"Oh, can't I get away somewhere?  I don't want to meet anybody!"
cried Norah in distress at the prospect of having to talk to
strangers--especially strangers who may ask awkward questions!

But Mrs. Shaw will not listen to anything of the sort.

"Why, child," she reassures her, "you need not mind these two.  In
fact, I think you really ought to see them, they have evidently come
to enquire for you.  It's only Admiral Darlington, such a _nice_ man!
And his secretary too, Mr. Dimsdale, a charming fellow and a most
able man--but a thorough woman hater.  It even makes him nervous to
talk to an old woman like myself; and I think he would run a mile
sooner than talk to a pretty girl like you!"

"Not like most _naval_ men, then, is he?" smiles Norah, endeavouring
to act a cheerful part, though her own sinking heart knows well
enough that it is only acting.

"Ha!  Mrs. Shaw, good afternoon, good afternoon," the admiral hails
her as soon as he gets within earshot.  "So I see you've got one of
your patients out in the sunshine.  That's good--nothing like
sunshine and fresh air to bring back the roses into pale cheeks."

"Yes, Admiral," replies the good lady, "and I was just going this
very moment to fetch the other one out too.  Miss Sheridan, let me
introduce Admiral Darlington, and Mr. Dimsdale.

"Now you know one another, and I can leave you for a few minutes
while I get the other poor thing.  Now, Mr. Dimsdale, you must be
entertaining.  Try and brighten her up a little; she wants rousing!
Well, I'll be off now."  And so saying she bustles off to the hut,
full of energy and kindness as usual.

Admiral Darlington settles himself comfortably in the vacant deck
chair at Norah's side, and to judge by the satisfied appearance of
his beaming face is thoroughly pleased with the situation.  It is a
long time since he has had the opportunity of talking to such a
pretty girl as this, and the gallant old sea-dog is ready to make the
most of the chance.

The secretary, however, is left standing awkwardly in face of the
seated pair.  He looks rather a forlorn sight.  So much so that the
wicked old admiral chuckles inwardly at his discomfiture, and slyly
says:

"You can sit on the ground, Dimsdale.  It won't hurt you, you are
younger than I am.  Besides, it's the correct thing for youth to bask
at the feet of beauty!"

"I--I'd rather stand, thank you.  I'm quite comfortable like this,
thank you," stammers the unhappy secretary.

Oh, if the conversation can only be confined to pleasantries and
small-talk, thinks Norah.  Anything, rather than that it should veer
round to herself and her experiences!  So, with an effort, she
continues to act her part:

"Oh, Mr. Dimsdale, please do sit down.  Perhaps you are afraid of the
damp?  You can have a corner of my rug to sit on, if you like.  Isn't
that nice of me?"

"Oh no, not at all, not at all!--I mean--yes, very.  But really, I'd
rather stand."

"I see," answers Norah, "I quite understand.  No giving way to
idleness--the alert, active temperament--always ready for instant
action.  I, expect you are just longing for an engagement, aren't
you?"

"An _engagement_?" cries the thoroughly flustered secretary.  "No,
certainly not!  Oh, I see what you mean--yes, yes, of course--stupid
of me--I should love to be engaged.  I mean--dear me, how very
oppressive it is this afternoon.  Quite hot, isn't it?  I think, sir,
I had better be getting back to the ship to write out that report for
you."

"Oh, no hurry, Dimsdale, no hurry at all," answers the wicked
admiral.  "In fact, I don't even know what report you are talking
about.  But whatever it is I am quite sure it can perfectly well wait
for a while.  You don't come ashore often enough; and now that you
_are_ out of the ship for once you may as well stay and get the
benefit of the fresh air."

"Yes, _do_ stay," adds Norah's voice, which can be meltingly
persuasive when she tries to make it so.  In this instance the
earnestness is not altogether assumed; three's company, two's none,
when it is a question of a _tête-à-tête_ with the admiral.

"It's--it's rather cold out of doors this afternoon, sir.  I think
I'd better be getting back to the ship."

"Nonsense, man, nonsense," says Admiral Darlington.  "You can stay
awhile, surely.  We'll go back together, presently."

"Mr. Dimsdale," insinuates Norah, "I should think that you--all of
you--must find it very trying to be cooped up on board a ship month
after month all by yourselves and never having any ladies' society,
don't you?"

This is a subject on which the secretary can be really eloquent.  His
face quite lights up as he replies:

"I never enjoyed being in the Navy so much before in all my life!"
And then, suddenly awaking to the enormity of these sentiments, he
tries to cover it by adding, "Oh, I don't mean that, I mean it's
very----"

"It's perfectly damnable, Miss Sheridan.  Tut, tut, perfectly
dreadful, I should say," breaks in the admiral.

"I am sure it must be," smiled the girl.  "How beautiful it is to sit
here, Admiral Darlington, with such a view, and all these ships to
look at."

The admiral's beaming face becomes suddenly grave and thoughtful, as
he lifts his eyes to rest them on those distant ships lying at anchor
which his young companion has remarked as a beautiful sight.

"It is something more than beautiful," he says meaningly; "it is an
impressive sight--next to the Grand Fleet itself, perhaps the most
impressive sight to be seen anywhere on the seas at this present
moment!  When you go home, Miss Sheridan, you will be able to tell
your friends that you have seen some of those ships that stand
between Germany and her monstrous dreams of world-power.  Were it not
for the Fleet, the war would have come to an end long ago, with
Europe blackened and devastated, crushed under Germany's iron heel.
Look well at those ships, young lady.  They are just a part of the
protecting shield that keeps our country from the invader.  His foot
will never defile our shores so long as the Fleet is above water!"

This is trying enough to Norah's ears, but not so bad as it might be.

And, to her great relief and joy, Mrs. Shaw rejoins the group at this
moment, with Netta.  The two girls meet in a close embrace with
hurried, whispered greetings.  No time for confidences now, for Mrs.
Shaw is already clucking over her chickens.

"Here is our other patient, Admiral," she says; "Not very strong yet,
I'm afraid.  We shall have to take great care of her for a few days,
before she will be fit to travel."

"She can't be in better hands than yours, Mrs. Shaw," replies the
admiral gallantly.  "I hope, young ladies, you will consider
yourselves the guests of the British Navy for as long as you like.
We shall be only too delighted to do what little we can for you,
knowing what you women have done to alleviate the hardships of us
sailormen.  We can never repay what we owe to you!"

How sharp is the stab which such a kindly hand can deal unknowingly.
It is more than Norah can bear.

"You too?" she cries, hiding her face in her hands.  "Must everyone
remind me?"

"Remind you?" echoes the admiral, slightly puzzled.  "Oh, of your
sex's kindness towards the Navy, you mean.  Well, my dear young lady,
you will have to accustom yourself to being thanked for that.  I can
tell you, we shall never forget what you have done.  Mrs. Shaw, let
us leave these young people for a few minutes; I have something I
want to say to you."

"Certainly, Admiral," assents the good lady, a little surprised, but
nevertheless allowing him to lead her away where they can talk
without being overheard.  "Is it anything I can do?"

"Well, it was not merely to enquire for these two poor things that I
came ashore this afternoon.  I have something rather serious to tell
you, something that I don't want anybody to know.  But it is only
right that you should hear it."

"Not about Alick?" anxiously asks the other, clutching her
companion's arm.

"Your nephew is quite safe; you can be perfectly easy in your mind
about him.  But his ship, the _Marathon_--however, come a little
further away, where we can be sure they won't hear us.  We don't want
the matter to become public property yet, you understand."




CHAPTER XIII

Besides all her other anxieties, there is still one further question
that has been exercising Norah's mind--what has become of her cousin
Patrick?  For she has not seen him since they landed together from
the destroyer which brought them all back to the base.  She and Netta
were taken at once to the island where Mrs. Shaw presided over the
hut, as the one place where they could be cared for by members of
their own sex.  But as for Patrick, he was disposed of somewhere
else.  Norah does not know where; so now she finds her opportunity to
ask.

"Mr. Dimsdale, can you give me any news of my cousin, Mr. Sheridan?"

"Mr. Sheridan?  Oh, he is in the Depôt ship for the present.  I
believe it was his wish to go South to-morrow by himself, and to send
for you ladies as soon as you are well enough to undertake the
journey.  I believe the plan is altered now--I should say, I believe
he has made a different arrangement since this morning.  I'm afraid I
really must be getting away, if you will be good enough to excuse me.
I am very busy this afternoon; heaps of work waiting for me in my
office."

Netta raised her eyes to him--and very pretty grey eyes they are,
too, and anxiously enquires:

"You have seen my brother, then, have you?  When was it you saw him?
How was he?  Did he ask for us?"

Dimsdale finds it a little difficult to reply to all these questions
at once; but manages to say:

"Yes, and I expect you would like to see him too.  Shall I go and
tell him so?  I can go right away and do it now, if you like.  I
can--easily.  I have nothing particular to do this afternoon."

"Oh, no," cries Netta, shrinking from the ordeal of having to face
her terrible brother, "don't let him come here!"

The secretary eyes her very sympathetically, and is evidently
affected by her distress.

"He needn't come, if you're not feeling up to it," he replies
encouragingly.

"Yes, that is it," Netta tells him, glad to be given a ready-made
explanation of what might seem an unnatural reluctance to see her
brother.  "I am not strong enough just now.  Perhaps it would be
better for him to go on by himself as he suggests."

"But _I_ want to see him," Norah breaks in, "I _must_ see him, and as
soon as possible."

It really is rather trying for poor Dimsdale to arrange matters so as
to please these two young ladies who hold such very opposite and very
exacting views!  He can only follow the line of least resistance, and
promise the last speaker exactly what she asks.  This is the easiest
way out of it for him, and so he proceeds to tell Norah that she
shall certainly have her wish and see her cousin at once.

"Not to-day; not to-day!" the agitated Netta appeals.

"Very well then, to-morrow?  To-morrow morning?  I'll arrange it.  I
really _must_ go and find the admiral; I am sure he wants me.  Some
very important business!"

"Well, Mr. Dimsdale," Norah tells him, "if you will please arrange
for my cousin to come here to-morrow morning I shall be very
grateful."

"I'll go and see about it this very minute," answers the much
harassed secretary, seeing at last a chance of escape: "I'll go right
off to the Depôt ship at once.  Good morning--good afternoon, I mean.
Good afternoon!"

And, after a few hasty strides in quite the wrong direction, he
recovers himself sufficiently to know where he wants to go, and turns
about, disappearing presently towards the landing-place.

Norah follows him with laughing eyes.  "Poor man!" she whispers,
smiling.

But Netta has a haunting fear which does not allow her to share in
her cousin's amusement.  She turns to her at once, gasping out:

"Oh, Norah, at last I've got a chance to speak to you!  Tell me, did
you do it, did you do it?"

No need to specify further her meaning.  Norah knows, and at once
gives her answer.

"No, Netta, I did not.  I meant to do it--indeed, up to the very last
moment I fully intended to; but then I--I altered my mind!"

"Oh, thank God!  But--why?"

"I do not know.  No, that is not quite true; I do know why.  Let me
at least have the honesty to speak the truth to you, even though it
is to my own shame!  A woman who had the fixed intention of becoming
a wholesale murderess ought not to shrink from putting off a little
of her maiden modesty.  I did not set the bomb, because of--because
of one man."

"What man, Norah?  That young officer who was so kind in looking
after you?"

"Yes.  He was so good to me, and so merry-hearted.  And all the time
while he was taking care of me with such tenderness--with his gay,
light chatter, which I could see well enough was only meant to keep
me from breaking down--all that time I kept saying to myself, _I am
going to kill you soon; in a few hours you will lie lying a burnt and
mangled corpse at the bottom of the sea; and it is my hand that is
going to send you there!_"

Netta gives a low moan, burying her face in her hands; only looking
up again after a pause to say:

"Horrible!  I know!  _I_ felt like that almost from the beginning,
even before we started out.  But you have always been so much more
strong-minded than I am.  I quite thought that _you_ would have
allowed nothing to hinder you--nothing, no one!"

"No one but this man alone could have done so, I believe," solemnly
answers the other girl.

"What!  Do you mean----?  You _fell in love_ with him, then?  Norah!
_You_!"

"I do not know.  Oh, why do you ask me that question!  But I will
make a clean breast of it all, to you.  Yes, I think I did.  But, all
the same, it was not on his account alone that I held my hand at the
last moment."

"But I thought you said----?"

"I mean--yes, I _would_ have refused for his sake alone; but it was
not _only_ that.  It was--yes, I suppose it must have been love;
love, that made me wake up and see what a terrible thing it was that
I was about to do.  And then, all those other lives suddenly seemed
to me just as precious as"--very softly come her closing words--"as
his!"

"But what became of the bomb?" enquires Netta, who not being in love
herself has now become the more practical-minded of the two.

"Ah," Norah replies despondingly, "that is just what I would give
anything to know!  Patrick snatched it from me, just as I was going
to fling it overboard, and at that very moment the officers came into
the room.  Whether Patrick was able to put it down somewhere
afterwards, I cannot tell.  I am so afraid he _may_ have found an
opportunity.  But I hope not; indeed, I am almost sure he did not."

"You are sure of that, you say?  Oh, I am so glad!"

"No, not _quite_ sure.  That is just the haunting dread I still feel.
And, that, too, is just why I must see him, to find out definitely."

"But haven't you asked him already?"

"No, I tried to, but he would not speak to me on board the destroyer.
He is angry with me, and looks on me as a traitress to the cause--as
I suppose I am.  But he _must_ tell me what he did!--_Look!_"

Her voice has suddenly altered to one of intense alarm and surprise.

"_Look!_" she repeats, clutching at her cousin's arm, and gazing
wildly down the path.  "It is----"

Netta has seen too; and she also needs no second glance to recognise
the man who has approached unnoticed until he is quite near them.

It is Alick Stapleton.




CHAPTER XIV

Lieutenant-Commander Stapleton advances with smiling face and
outstretched hand towards two very frightened girls.  He is quite
aware that they would have cause indeed to feel alarmed if they
really knew of the disaster that has happened to the _Marathon_; but
he is also aware that they are in ignorance of this occurrence--and
it is up to him to keep them so.  Why should they be made to feel
this additional shock, after all their sufferings?

So his first greeting is a cheery--

"So I have found you!  And given you a fright at the same time, eh?
You did not expect to see me again so soon, I suppose?  But, as a
matter of fact, our cruise was unexpectedly shortened, and I got
ashore not so very long after you did."

"Oh, I am so glad, so glad!" Netta exclaims, with the most obvious
relief and joy beaming in her pretty grey eyes.

"That's very good of you to say so," returns Stapleton, a little
dryly; knowing that the loss of the _Marathon_ is at present a secret
he is somewhat at a loss to account for this ebullition of gladness.

There is rather an awkward pause; and Stapleton's usually ready wit
fails him when he searches in his mind for the appropriate thing to
say next.  Netta's uncalled for expressions of joy have made things
just a little difficult for him.

Happily, the situation is relieved from an unexpected quarter, Mrs.
Shaw coming into view and running--yes, running, and with rather
shaky steps, towards her nephew.

"Why--there's--oh, Alick, my boy, my boy!" she cries, hugging him
close, then holding him off to take a good look at him, and then
hugging him again.

"Hallo, Auntie!" laughs the young man, recovering his
self-possession, "why you seem all of a tremble like!  Got a job of
work to do, or what's affecting you?"

"You cheeky fellow!" is all she answers him: all she answers him
openly, that is; for still holding him in her embrace, she finds
opportunity to whisper in his ear:

"Hush, I know all about it.  I've just seen your admiral.  Remember,
not a word to these two!"

And then, speaking in her natural tones and turning towards the girls:

"This bad nephew of mine is always giving me the most dreadful
shocks!  Coming back so soon, when I thought he was hundreds of miles
away!  Everyone well on board the _Marathon_, Alick?"

"Thank you, Auntie."  Stapleton cannot bring himself to play up to
the good soul's sly acting quite so well as she would like; but he
does his best.

"I'm very glad indeed to hear that," Netta tells him.  "You were all
so good to us."  So great is her reaction and relief of mind that she
cannot help repeating her sentiments.  And she looks so very much in
earnest about it; her face grows quite pale as she speaks the simple
words.

Mrs. Shaw notices this.  "Why, child," she observes, "you're looking
quite upset!  You must have been allowing yourself to get
over-excited--now don't tell me you haven't!  You had better come
indoors and lie down in the shade for a little while; I was half
afraid it might be too much for you out here.  Alick, you may stay a
little and talk to Miss Norah, and then come in and see me before you
go back.  But don't stay too long, and mind you don't get her excited
too!"

Not unwillingly, Netta obediently takes the good woman's proffered
arm, and rising from her chair goes to seek the friendly shelter of
her room in the hut.  Indeed, it is quite true that what she has just
now seen and heard has been rather overcoming.  She has seen
Stapleton alive, and heard from his lips that all on board the
_Marathon_ are safe and sound.  Norah also has told her that she did
not leave the bomb in the ship; and, obviously, Patrick could not
have done so either, since no misadventure has occurred.  Now, she
reflects, Norah's mind as well as her own can be at rest; and nothing
remains but to get away as soon as can be arranged and try and live
down the memory of this nightmare, taking up some quiet useful walk
in life far away from Patrick's dreadful environment.  All that will
be easy, now that this gigantic load has been removed from their
lives.

So thinks Netta, as she departs with her kind friend.  And as she
rests on the couch where Mrs. Shaw places her with much kind fussing
and many injunctions to lie still and rest, she is able already to
indulge in rosy visions of the future.

She does not sleep, but just lies motionless with wide-open eyes, and
there is a trace of a smile lingering still on her lips.  This happy,
peaceful face is very different to the care-worn countenance she was
wearing but half an hour ago.  Like a child, she seems able to put
off very quickly the horrors of the past as soon almost as they have
gone, and to forget them utterly.  Her conscience has never approved
of the dreadful deed in which she was to have taken part--and, in
fact, did take part up to a certain point; but then, her conscience
was a very small factor in comparison with the iron force of her
brother's compelling will, and it never really had a chance to assert
itself.

Now, however, she is happy in the thought that events have turned out
just as she would really have willed them to: it seems almost a
miracle, and too good to be true, but the fact remains that she never
wanted to blow up the ship, and the ship has not been blown up.

So Netta suffers no mental agonising like that of Norah's, whose
purpose has only been broken down by one fearful blow after another.

So she rests with peaceful mind, and begins even now to build up
hopeful plans for the better days to come.

Amongst these happy visions there is one that shapes itself very
clearly and in the brightest colours: her cousin Norah must surely
blend her life with that of the man who has won her heart.  Why, the
two are even now at this very moment sitting side by side and
exchanging close confidences: from this it can only be a step to that
chapter of their life story which closes with the words "and they
lived happily ever after."  What could be simpler or better than
this?  There is nothing in the world to prevent it, thinks Netta;
and, having thoroughly settled this pleasing conclusion to her own
complete satisfaction, she at last closes her eyes and falls into a
happy slumber.




CHAPTER XV

Norah, meanwhile, is left alone with Stapleton.

She has given him no response to his cheery greetings, not even a
smile, and looks at him with a serious and mystified air.

The question which is on her lips finds utterance immediately Mrs.
Shaw and Netta have gone out of hearing; she puts it slowly and
earnestly:

"How did you come ashore?"

Stapleton laughs away her seriousness, or tries to; "I heard you were
here, and I came to see you," he answers readily.

"I don't mean that--you know I don't!" Her earnestness deepens into
an anxious craving for the truth, as the quivering voice betrays when
she adds the direct question.

"Why was your cruise cut short?  And when did you get in?"

Stapleton is not the man to be cornered so easily as this, however,
and finds a way to evade the awkward interrogation with every
appearance of frankness:

"Now you are asking me to tell you naval secrets!  What, do you
imagine I am going to trust you with the knowledge of the movements
of the fleet?  It wouldn't be safe!  But I can answer one part of
your question; we got in about six o'clock this morning.  And, as I
told you, I came here to see you as soon as I could find out where
you were.  You ought to say 'pleased to meet you,' or something like
that, you know."

"'Pleased to meet you, Mr. Stapleton,'" echoes Norah with mock
politeness.

"Yes, but are you really though?" urges Stapleton more earnestly.
"_Are_ you pleased to see me again?  Are you glad that I came
straight here to see you?  Tell me!"

"Why, of course I am," answers the girl, fencing off his impulsive
attack; "it cannot be anything but a pleasure to see one of those who
were so kind to us last night."

"You know perfectly well I don't mean anything like that!"  This
impetuous lover is so very direct in his speech, it is difficult to
keep him at bay; Norah, with a trembling heart, finds all her
defences breaking down at once.  "I told you last night that if I
lived I would search for you until I found you.  I meant it.  And I
have found you--sooner than I dared to hope.  Now then, I must hear
you tell me, are you glad to see--me?"

A silence.

"Norah--are you?"

"Yes--I--am."

"Norah!  My Norah!"

"Ah, no, no!"

"But it is ah, yes, yes!  Look me in the face--can you tell me that
you do not care for me?"

She does as he bids her; raises her glorious dark eyes to his,
fearlessly, like the brave-hearted girl she is, and tells him the
truth she is too proud to conceal.

"Yes, I do care.  Very much!"

"Surely it is all a dream!  It is all too strange, too wonderful, too
exquisite to be true!  There flashes across the girl's mind, as she
speaks her simple confession of love, a sort of instantaneous
vision--a mental picture of her life.  She sees dark clouds forming,
rolling down upon her and growing ever more and more threatening;
gloomy black clouds, heavy with doom and horror; they close around
her and she is almost engulfed in them--when on a sudden, a dazzling
shaft of golden light pierces the thick darkness, rolling back the
evil clouds and scattering them into nothingness, leaving her bathed
in the gleaming glory.

The vision passes.  Her lover has taken her by the hand and is gently
compelling her to follow him.  His desire is to lead her away, out of
sight and hearing of all who may chance to break in upon them.  This
supreme moment of their lives must not be interrupted; it is for
themselves alone.

The hillocky ground of the wild heather-clad island affords many a
safe retreat for lovers' confidences, even though it is a fairly well
frequented spot.  Here is the sailors' hut, and here the recreation
ground, and further away some scattered cottages of the highland
natives; but there is room enough amongst the rough sedgy wastes
where the bog-cotton makes a snowy carpet and the curlew and plover
awake the solitudes with their plaintive cries, room enough for two
to escape from all the wide world and find a new glorious world in
which live none but just themselves alone.

So they walk, side by side, in silence at first: and the rough ground
beneath their feel becomes the golden floor of heaven.

And, presently, Alick Stapleton takes his beloved into his arms.
"Then you are my Norah, after all," he whispers to her; "my very own
Norah!  Yet I never doubted it, from the first moment I saw you.
Even then as soon as my eyes rested on you, I knew that there could
never be any other woman in the world for me but you, and I
hoped--yes, I knew, that you would sometime or other come to feel
just the same way about me!  And do you really and truly mean that
you can love me too?  That you began to care for me at that very same
time?  Wonderful!"

A premonition of impending misfortune strikes coldly upon her heart,
a dark foreboding such as chilled the passionate rapture of another
maiden long ago who, like her, feared a sudden ending to the glories
of love at first sight--

        "_----Although I joy in thee,
  I have no joy of this contract to-night;
  It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden,
  Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be
  Ere one can say 'It lightens.'_"


Stapleton feels no such foolish dread, and would laugh her fears away.

"Why, what is there to be afraid of?" he smilingly chides her.  "As
long as we love each other there is nothing in the world that can
come between us!"

Norah sighs, answering him, "Ah, how many who have loved have said
the same thing--and believed it!"

"But _I_ believe it, and you must believe it, too," this forceful
lover insists--"Norah, my darling, do not let such sad thoughts come
upon you at such a moment as this!"

"No," she makes answer, almost fiercely, thrusting aside her dread
presentiment, "this hour of love and happiness at least may be
allowed me, and nothing shall snatch it away!"

She clings to her lover's arm, leaning upon him as though she would
seek shelter there and keep the world at bay, defying fate and all
the threats and dangers of the days to come.

"Why, that's my girl," smiles Stapleton.  "But not this hour of
happiness only, Norah.  Love and happiness shall be ours all through
our life.  It will rest with ourselves to make it so.  Every thought
of mine shall be for you.  Do you know, I kept thinking about you all
the time after you left us last night?  I could not put you out of my
mind--I did not want to!"

Not _quite_ the truth, Lieutenant-Commander Stapleton, first
lieutenant of the _Marathon_, not quite the whole truth and nothing
but the truth; for was there not that terrible time when all his
thoughts had been for the ship and her crew, suddenly overtaken by
that awful disaster!

Yet he must not let his mind dwell upon that horror for a single
moment, lest his brain should telegraph to Norah's the sad awfulness
of it; for both their minds are surely tuned alike at such a time as
this, and it would be very easy for her to receive impressions from
the waves of her lover's thoughts.  At all costs, the knowledge of
the disaster must be kept from her, at least for the present.

So Stapleton dismisses the fearful memory; and a lighter recollection
takes its place in his mind.  This is better fitted for her ears, and
he smiles as he tells her.

"Do you know, when my marine servant brought the hot water to my
cabin just before dinner, I said 'Thank you, darling,' to him."

"He _must_ have been surprised," laughs Norah.

"Oh, I don't know; it takes a good deal to surprise a marine!--But
tell me, did you think about me, too, just ever so little?"

"More than a little.  I thought about you all the time.  Oh, I am so
glad to know you are safe--all of you!"

"Hm!  Why shouldn't we be safe?"--Stapleton thinks it rather a
curious remark, and hopes to goodness his face will not betray him
into making any unnecessary revelations.

Norah also realises how very inopportune are the words that have
slipped out unawares; and endeavours to explain away her real
anxieties.

"Oh, I don't know why!  There are always dangers at sea, aren't
there?  And especially now in war-time."  The girl turns very white
as she voices these stirrings of her heart.

Stapleton feels he must dispel these fears at once.  He knows what an
agony is endured by sweethearts and wives who let their imagination
brood upon the perils of the deep in time of war.  His messmates have
spoken of such matters in his hearing how the dear women at home
endure torturing days and sleepless nights in utter helplessness,
thinking of those who go down to the sea in ships, and suffering
infinitely more than the objects of their anxiety and
compassion--who, indeed, are very often spending a thoroughly
comfortable time and would be vastly surprised to be told they were
the subjects of so much pity.

It will never do for Norah to start indulging in such worries; so
Stapleton turns the subject aside with a light-hearted jest.

"Well," says he, "anyhow, there are no more dangers at sea than there
are ashore.  Why, the most dreadful things happen to those brave
people who have the courage to live on dry land.  Think of the--the
'bus accidents, and the--the banana skins!  Think of the flag days!
More people get killed in one day in London through bursting
blood-vessels in altercations with taxi-drivers than have been lost
in action at sea since the days of Nelson; there are statistics to
prove it!  And, then, there was an uncle of mine who spent
twenty-nine years afloat, and directly he retired and took to the
beach, blessed if he didn't go and marry his cook!  Oh yes, the land
is far more dangerous than the sea, every time!"

And so, betwixt love and laughter, the happy minutes pass.  Norah
clings to her hour, the more because she knows full well it must end
soon.  She must make full confession--that is imperative; and, when
she has confessed, there can be no more question of love between her
and this gallant, loyal young King's Officer.  He will hate her--or,
what is worse, will pity her; but in no case can he consent to link
his life with hers; she has put herself beyond the pale by her rash
and wicked plotting.

But the confession shall not be made just yet.  Of that Norah is
determined.  So little has been her portion of joy in life till now,
so little will be hers when this brief hour is gone; now, while love
is within her grasp, it shall be hers to enjoy, come what may!

Yes, and there is another consideration that makes her keep silence:
the safety of Netta, who is very dear to her.  Norah is quite
prepared to stand the punishment for her own guilt, but she will not
incriminate her cousin.

Wait till they have escaped Southwards, when Netta can hide herself
somewhere till the affair has blown over--Patrick doubtless, will be
quite able to take care of himself.  Then, and not before, Norah says
to herself, she will write to Alick Stapleton, openly confessing her
own share in the plot--and then she, too, can shrink into obscurity
and pray that her life may not be a long one.  But, for the present,
she bids defiance to black care.




CHAPTER XVI

But the end comes sooner than Norah has planned.

Fate will not be mocked and defied, but demands quick retribution.
Even now, while the lovers are wandering idly along the moorland
paths and opening their hearts in the first effulgence of their
new-found happiness, grim Fate is stalking them over the heather-clad
hills and is coming quickly towards the girl who has dared to defy
him.

And with cruel irony, Fate chooses for Norah's undoing three
instruments which should be the last in the world to bring harm to
her--a dog she has petted, a man she has befriended, and a child she
has loved.

The dog comes first.  He is just a mongrel spaniel, a brown thing
with silky ears and most beseechful eyes and a more than human memory
for a friend.  Oh, that memory!  It means the death of love to Norah!
Over the ridge of the rough ground the dog appears, ranging from side
to side and nosing about in the coarse growth as a spaniel will.
Then he stops, seeing the couple beneath, and raises his brown head
for a glance at them.

One glance is enough.  With a short excited yelp of recognition he
comes tumbling down the slope and rushes towards Norah, flattening
himself to the ground at her feet, wriggling and dragging his silky
body forward in an ecstasy of delight, and all the time flogging the
earth with a thudding tail.

"Why, Mopsey, Mopsey!" cries the girl, stooping quietly to pat him.

And then she draws back quickly, biting her lip, knowing that she has
betrayed herself.

"Hallo," says Stapleton, astonished, "why, the dog seems to know you!"

Is there any escape from this trap in which Norah has allowed herself
to be caught unawares?  Yes, perhaps with luck.  It means _lying_,
but Norah realises that she must not stick at telling more
untruths--if Netta is to be saved.

"And you know him, too," Stapleton adds; "where have you seen him
before?"

"Most dogs like me," she answered; "I always make friends with them
at once.  And this one reminded me of one I used to have at home, two
or three years ago.  He was called Mopsey, and was so much like this
dear thing that for the moment I really half thought it was my old
Mopsey come to life again!"

Lies!  Lies!  They fall awkwardly from the girl's lips, and she hates
herself for telling them.  She is not accustomed to speaking the
thing that is not true--_was_ not accustomed, rather, till forced
into it by the mad career upon which she was persuaded to embark.
And now it is not easy to step back into the old paths of honour and
truth.  A hateful necessity holds her in its grip.  For her own sake
alone she would scorn to take refuge in this lying subterfuge, even
though her brief hour of love is at stake and she finds herself
standing at bay, faced by the hounds of Fate.  But Netta's safety is
another matter, and one which unrelentingly demands that she shall
pile falsehood upon falsehood.

Even so, with her assumed hardihood, Norah is not able to bring a
tone of conviction into her words; they ring false, as false as they
are.

Nor does this escape her companion's notice.  Stapleton darts a quick
glance at her, almost doubting her for a fraction of a second.  Then
he feels thoroughly ashamed for daring to doubt her and is more than
annoyed with himself for having done so.  After all, why on earth
should any doubt creep into the occasion?  It is not such a very
strange coincidence, to come across a dog resembling one you have
owned in former days, is it?

Now he is all for making honourable amends for his momentary distrust.

"There is nothing very wonderful, Norah, dear," says he, "in all dogs
loving you.  _They_ know--they have an instinct for recognising
people who are genuine and good.  You never find a dog making friends
with a mean person, a coward, a liar."

Oh!  Oh!  Inwardly Norah cowers and shrinks beneath this stinging
blow, but outwardly she has to keep a bold face and maintain at least
the appearance of frankness.

"What was your own Mopsey like?" pursues the girl's lover.  "Spaniels
are always so intelligent; was yours?"

Norah takes refuge in stooping to fondle the dog at her feet, in
order to hide her face while she proceeds to invent the life history
of an entirely imaginary dog.

"Intelligent?" she laughs, "why, Mopsey was the cleverest dog that
ever lived!  He knew as much as most humans, and a good deal more
than some!  He could do anything but speak.  Even from a puppy he
seemed to understand everything I said to him.  For instance, I only
had to say 'Mopsey, go upstairs and fetch my handkerchief, I left it
on the bed,' and he would go at once and bring it.  But that was
nothing; once, I was going out to play tennis and when I had gone
about half a mile from the house I discovered that the shoes I was
carrying were not my own but Netta's, so I whistled to Mopsey and
told him to take them back quickly and bring me my own shoes.  You
will hardly believe it when I tell you that within a quarter of an
hour he was with me again, bringing the right pair of shoes in his
mouth!  I don't suppose there ever was quite such a clever dog as my
dear old Mopsey!"

No, probably there never was!

Perhaps, in her artistic effort to portray the intelligent creature
of her imagination, Norah has a little overdrawn the picture: yet
Stapleton, blinded with love and devotion, does not see it, and only
murmurs admiringly:

"You must have been awfully----"

Exactly how Stapleton intended to conclude his sentence is never
known, for he breaks it off in the middle, being interrupted by a
voice which comes ringing across the heather, the voice of some man
as yet unseen, concealed by the turfy hillocks.

"_Mopsey, Mopsey!  Good dog, come here then, where are you?  Mopsey!_"

The dog has pricked up his silken ears at the first sound of the
voice.  He turns his head, and then for a moment pretends not to have
heard, yielding to the pleasurable lure of Norah's caressing hands.
Only for a moment, though.  As the cry is repeated, coming nearer
this time, the dog's instinct of duty proves stronger than the rival
attraction, and he bounds off up the bank in a floundering run to
seek his master.

_His master!_  Norah gasps as she realises how much greater her
danger is than she had fondly imagined.  How could she be fool
enough, she asks herself, to imagine that Mopsey's master could be
very far away from Mopsey?

So now the game is up!  All hope is lost, and her ingenious
fabrications have been of no avail.  She might have known it!

Resigning herself to her fate, she turns and looks upwards to find,
as she expected, Stapleton looking down upon her in troubled
wonderment.

There is something more than wonder in his handsome face, shadowed
now by a look of severity, almost of anger.  He is frowning, and a
glance of accusation shines from his eyes:

"Why, Norah----" he begins; but proceeds no further.  Once more he is
interrupted.

Over the top of the bank appear two men in bluejackets' rig, stalwart
young able seamen their faces glowing with the healthy buffetings of
the North Sea wind and spray.  At least one of them possesses this
appearance to a marked degree; he has evidently spent a long sojourn
up in the Northern Mists.  His companion rather lacks that jolly
weather-beaten look, though he too is fresh-coloured and healthy; and
it is at his heels that the dog Mopsey walks--though he breaks away
again at sighting Norah, and comes lolloping up to her again.

The two bluejackets check their stride on seeing an officer before
them, and are about to turn respectfully aside and seek another path
when Mopsey's master turns his eyes upon the girl at the officer's
side--recognises her!

Then, with a leap and a run through the thick scrubby growth of furze
and heather, he comes to her with outstretched hand and a smile of
astonishment and welcome.

"Why, Miss," he exclaims, "who ever would have thought of seeing you
here!  I thought you were going to Ireland!"

Stapleton stands apart in silence, looking from one to the other, and
not knowing what to make of it all.  He thinks he had better watch,
and listen; possibly the mystery will explain itself.

It does.  He has not long to wait.

"How did you get here, Miss?" continues the sailor; "only last week,
when you were staying at our house in Glasgow, you said you were
going to your cousin's home in Ireland for six months--how is it that
I find you here?  Is your--is Miss Netta with you?"

Norah, for one brief moment, has thought wildly of brazening it out
and denying that she has ever met this man; of saying that he must be
mistaking her for someone else of his acquaintance.  But she
perceives that this course of action would avail her not at all.  It
is only too obvious that the man has really recognised her; besides,
he has openly mentioned Netta's name.  There is no escaping from such
a trap as this!




CHAPTER XVII

In her utter dismay and despair the events of the previous week flash
across Norah's mind like a swift dream.

They say that even the most cunning criminals, even such astute
experts as have learnt every clever device to cover up their tracks,
usually neglect some simple precaution or commit some perfectly
childish blunder which leads to their undoing.

So it has now proved, after all the ingenious and elaborate
precautions of Patrick Sheridan and his fair accomplices; one little
fact overlooked, and the whole conspiracy is threatened with exposure.

Or is it not rather one turn of the wheel of fate which was quite
beyond the power of the plotters to foresee or to avoid?

For who could have foretold that Dick Baynes, able seaman and
volunteer, would have been sent to this remote part of the world when
there were so many other places, so many other ships, to which he
might have been drafted?

Indeed, Dick Baynes himself had distinctly said that he was expecting
to go out to the Mediterranean.  He had even named the ship which he
was going to join, and the actual date on which he was to depart.

Norah remembers that a certain vague feeling of distrust had chilled
her from the very first moment when Baynes came into the house at
Glasgow where she and her cousins were staying while making their
final plans.

It was the house of certain sympathisers with the great cause.  Known
and trusted sympathisers; yet not wholly trusted, for it was not well
to take too many people into complete confidence in such a desperate
venture as this.

So the Maloney family, in their mean house in one of the poorest
quarters of Glasgow, knew but little of the doings and plans of the
Sheridans beyond the fact that they were to give the visitors shelter
for a few days and assist them without questioning in everything that
might be required.  The word was passed to them to this effect, and
it was an order which they dared not disobey even if they desired to
do so.

No difficulty was experienced in maintaining the necessary secrecy,
owing to the fact that secrecy and mystery were the dearest delights
of Sheridan and his fellow-plotters.  The society, league, or
organisation, or whatever its correct name was, to which he belonged,
dabbled in mystery and secrets like a child playing with its pet
toys.  Indeed, there was very much that was childish in the whole
business; coupled with a good deal of malevolent purpose.  The
conspirators took themselves very seriously: if they had possessed a
grain of their proverbial national humour their enterprise would have
died at its birth.  But just as in the case of similar enterprises
emanating from a similar source, that grain of humour was unhappily
lacking.  So there were pass-words, oaths, secret sessions, codes,
signs, and all the rest of it, highly diverting to the very serious
conspirators who succeeded thereby in impressing themselves with an
enormous sense of their own importance and would sooner have parted
with life itself than have divulged a single one of their precious
secrets--all of which, by the way, might have been discovered with
ease by any village constable had he thought it worth while.  But,
unhappily, the official mind does not always think it worth while to
investigate every hare-brained scheme compounded of play-acting and
murder in equal parts; with the result that the comedy sometimes
becomes overtaken by the tragedy.

Nor was money lacking to provide for the complete carrying out of the
plot.  The headquarters of the association supplied ample
funds--though where these funds came from originally was not known to
every casual member; only the inner circle possessed this particular
secret.

As far as the Maloneys were concerned, their only part was to provide
a fast sea-going motor-boat, and to give house-room to the Sheridans.
The former of these requirements was one which they were easily able
to supply, owing to their knowledge of the Clyde and the many firms
on its banks.  The boat was purchased, not openly--that would never
have done!--but by underground channels and devious ways, through
sub-agents and second and third parties under assumed names and every
conceivable falsification--a process which gave the greatest pleasure
to Patrick Sheridan and his mysterious chiefs at headquarters.

Buying an old ship's lifeboat, fitting her out so as to look as she
was intended to look, and then concealing her in an unfrequented
creek somewhere on the west coast of Scotland was a matter that
called for rather more care and precaution.  But even this was
effected at last, though it necessitated many trips to and fro,
always by sea so as to avoid inquisitive observation.

All went very well, so long as the Sheridans had to deal with the
Maloneys alone.  They were decent enough people in their way, very
poor, and in all probability quite ignorant of the blacker side of
the organisation to which they belonged as very subordinate members;
nothing but their poverty had induced them to join it, poverty and
the discontent which ensues therefrom, causing them to leave no
source of possible aid untried.  And they did find some help in this
league; many were the pickings they gained by assisting it in their
humble way--and they were content to remain ignorant and ask no
questions so long as the trickle of gold continued.

The Maloneys were but two, husband and wife, both of them somewhat
over the middle age.  Well, there was a third, but so small that it
hardly counted.  This was wee Sheila, the two-year old child of the
Maloneys' only daughter.  Kathleen Maloney, at the age of twenty, had
disgraced her parents and brought shame upon her home--at least, so
the parents themselves said--by marrying a man in the hated uniform
of the tyrant English King.

Kathleen however, did not altogether share her parents'
sentiments--especially when a counter-argument was presented in the
form of handsome young Dick Baynes who came a-courting her and
speedily won her.

But as the misguided girl made amends for her treachery by dying at
the birth of her child no great harm was done.  Wee Sheila was taken
to live with her grandparents, and the unhappy widower was packed off
to go about his lawful occasions in the British Navy.

Just at the time when the Sheridans came to Glasgow, able seaman
Baynes was stationed at Portsmouth Barracks, waiting to be drafted to
a ship.

Then, quite unexpectedly, he appeared at Glasgow.

Pat Sheridan scowled darkly when he saw the fresh-complexioned spruce
young seaman cross the threshold.  Little use had he for any man
belonging to the British Navy!

Norah did not scowl; but she understood well all that this man stood
for--and all that she was committed to.  And she feared, though
scarcely knowing why.

As for Netta, she neither scowled nor feared, but was openly and
genuinely pleased to have someone about the premises of a different
type from the dark conspirators around her--especially one of such a
pleasing appearance and manner as the handsome and lively Dick Baynes.

The gallant young sailor was quite wrapped up in his motherless
daughter, a fascinating little mite with pretty ways and lovely face;
but he found space also in his large heart to devote a good deal of
dog-like attention to Miss Netta Sheridan--always with the utmost
deference and respect, like a peasant worshipping a princess.

Had Netta been of a humbler station in life, it is just possible that
Dick Baynes might have made the attempt to console himself for his
lost Kathleen; and who knows but what he might have succeeded, with
his honest manly bearing and his handsome open face?  As it was,
Netta suffered him to the extent of permitting him to act as her
escort day after day while the others plotted.  And many were the
walks they took through the Clydebank suburbs, and sometimes in the
parks of Glasgow itself.  Mopsey, the sailor's dog, acted as chaperon
on these occasions; that is to say, sometimes, for mostly the fickle
Mopsey preferred to remain at home in company with Norah, to whom he
had taken a very great fancy.

And then wee Sheila fell ill.  Very ill indeed was the poor mite,
sick nigh unto death.

It was Norah who nursed her, sitting up three nights by the child's
bedside and never leaving her even for a single hour.  Norah, who
soothed her delirium and quieted her with a touch of her tender
motherly hand--Norah, in whose heart at the same moment was the plan
of sending hundreds of men to their death!  It was Norah who remained
in the sick-room when the worst peril was past, and amused the child,
tossing fretfully on her little bed, by telling her fairy stories for
hour after hour, stories woven out of the love in her mother-heart,
such as no one can invent but those who love little children and
have--or ought to have--little children of their own.

And it was Netta--who scarcely went near the sick room--who got all
the gratitude from Dick Baynes.  For this is a part of that
mysterious thing, the Way of a Man with a Maid, that when he is
deeply in love his eyes can see no one else but her, and if the whole
world beside come showering gifts upon him he fondly imagines that
she alone is the source of all gifts.

Norah saw this, and understood.  As for Netta, it is doubtful whether
she even saw, and if she did, certainly she took it all as a matter
of course and accepted the homage without comment.

When Dick Baynes' leave was up, he went back to Portsmouth, taking
Mopsey the dog with him.  He said he expected this to be his final
visit before going abroad, as he thought he would be leaving for the
Mediterranean almost immediately.  Whereat Patrick Sheridan was
morosely glad, and Norah was unaccountably relieved; and Netta was
slightly sorry for at least twenty-four hours.

And none of the three ever dreamed that at the very last moment the
drafting of able seaman Baynes to a Mediterranean ship would be
cancelled and that he would be sent instead to this Northern base.

Norah, gazing wide-eyed at the man in her utter surprise and dismay,
reviews all this in a moment of thought, and even finds time to
reflect how utterly powerless one is, after taking the most
scrupulous precautions, to foresee or to combat the blind blows of
destiny.




CHAPTER XVIII

No, it is useless to pretend she does not know the man.

If he were alone, such a course, though desperate, might perhaps be
attempted, even if the chances of its succeeding were small indeed.
Still, with some hard lying and a brazen play at indignation,
something might possibly come of it.

But, unfortunately Dick Baynes has a chum with him, and what he finds
a little difficulty in saying to this fine young lady and her officer
companion he manages to express more easily to his own bluejacket
friend.

"Bill, this is that young lady I was telling you of," he says,
dragging forward his chum--who does not at all appear to appreciate
being forced into a conversation with such company, "the young lady
who helped the other young lady to nurse my little Sheila when she
was so sick.  Very good to us, she was, and I shall be ever grateful
for all she did--she _and_ the other young lady."

"Many's the time I've 'eard you say so, Dick," says Bill rather
sheepishly, as if he is not quite certain what is the correct thing
to say under the circumstances; and then, judging that he is called
upon to make some appropriate remark to the young lady in question,
he adds, "Your servant, Miss."  Which is an entirely non-committal
statement, showing politeness and a desire to please, and fitting
well into any and every sort of circumstance.

Norah ignores the well-meant effort, and turns upon Dick Baynes with
a question.  Forgetting that he began by asking her a very similar
one with regard to her own movements, she voices her surprise and
consternation in the query:

"How do you come to be here?  I thought you said you were going to
the Mediterranean?"

Anything to prolong the time and put off the evil moment when she
must be presently left alone with Stapleton!  Anything to confuse the
details and conceal, if possible, the worst of the truth under a mass
of empty talk.

"And I thought you were going to Ireland, Miss," answers the man.
"So it seems we were both of us a little out of our reckoning.  But
I'm glad indeed to meet you again and thank you for all you did for
me last week.  I was able to look in at Glasgow for a few hours on my
way up, and you'll be surprised to find what a difference there is in
my little Sheila.  She's as bright and bonny as if she had never been
ill at all--'tis wonderful how quickly children will recover from an
illness, isn't it?--and she is always asking, so her grandma tells
me, for Miss Netta and Mr. Sheridan, and you."

Stapleton can keep silence no longer.  He has listened to the amazing
revelations of this talk quite dumbfounded; scarcely understanding
its import at first, till little by little the full meaning of it
dawns upon his mind.  And he has been looking from Norah to Baynes
and from Baynes to Norah with consternation written on every line of
his face.  At last he breaks out, unable to keep back the question
that rises to his lips, and, alas, unable anymore to keep back his
growing doubt of Norah.

His voice, as he opens his lips to speak, sounds dry and unnatural;
it is the voice of a man suddenly subjected to a terrible mental
strain.

"What is this you are saying, my man," he questions, addressing
himself to able seaman Baynes; "did I understand you to state that
this lady was in Glasgow last week, and that you saw her there?"

Norah, like a drowning man clinging to a straw, has only one last
hope, one almost impossible chance remaining.  She seizes it in her
desperation, and with a frown and a shake of her head, unseen by
Stapleton, endeavours to extract from Baynes a denial which she
fondly hopes may sound plausible, Dick Baynes is an intelligent
man--to a certain extent.  That is to say, he is quite able to grasp
the fact that the frowning lady whose mouth is silently shaping a
"no" for his instruction expects him to contradict everything he has
so far said; but his intelligence does not go quite so far as to
enable him to invent on the spur of the moment some contradictory
statement which can carry conviction with it.

"I beg your pardon, sir?" he stammers.  This at least gives him a few
seconds more for further thought.  And Norah is still making signs to
him behind Stapleton's back.  Her face, Baynes notices, is very
white, white even to the lips.

"You heard what I said perfectly well," snaps out the imperious voice
of the officer.  "Was this lady staying in Glasgow last week, or was
she not?"

Norah's lips are shaping the words "last month; last month."  And
Baynes is not slow to grasp the significance of this lip-signalling;
it is not for nothing that he has been in his youth a frequenter of
the picture houses.

His face lights up with relief at being thus helped out of his
difficulty; and taking the cue he at once repeats aloud:

"Last month, sir, not last week.  Did I say last week, sir?  It must
have been a slip of the tongue on my part.  I meant to say last
month."

It is so obviously overdone, this explanation.  This is just where
Baynes' intelligence fails him; he has not the necessary culture for
the higher flights of lying, and ought never to make the attempt.

Stapleton, as was to be expected, sees through the transparent
subterfuge at once, and brushes the man and his denial aside with a
contemptuous exclamation.

He turns to the other man, whom he has up to now ignored and scarcely
even glanced at, overcome as he is by so many conflicting emotions.
And, looking at him now, recognises in him a man he has often met and
talked to, a seaman employed at one of the signalling stations on the
island.

"You, Gibbons, at any rate will tell me the truth," he says almost
appealingly.  "I want to know exactly what this man has told you
about this lady.  Keep silence, you," turning sharply upon Baynes who
has opened his mouth to attempt some further confused explanation.

"Well, it's like this 'ere, sir," begins the sailor whom Stapleton
has addressed as Gibbons; the poor man, evidently at a loss as to how
he can satisfy at the same time both his chum and this stern-looking
officer, removes his cap and passes the fingers of his brawny hand
through his thick, clustering brown hair, combing it into the
resemblance of a quickset hedge.  "It's like this 'ere, sir.  Baynes
an' me has been chums for a very long time, sir, ever since we was
little boys at the same school, sir.  An' I don't want to say nothin'
as is contrary to what he might be wishful for me to say, sir."

"I only want you to tell me the truth.  I insist upon your telling
me," orders the voice of authority.  "What I want to know is simply
this; has this man Baynes told you that he saw this lady in Glasgow
or has he not?"

"He has, sir."

"And _when_ did he tell you he saw her?  Was it last week, or was it
last month?"

"Well, you see, sir----"

"Answer me."

"Well, sir, as I understood him to say, it was last week.  But then,
sir, I might 'ave been labouring under a mis--mishapre'ension like."

"That will do.  I don't wish to hear any more.  You can go now, both
of you."

The two sailors, saluting, turn about and move off without another
word; neither of them feeling exactly sorry to get away from a
situation in which they have felt the very reverse of comfortable.
But they are sorry enough for the white-faced lady they have left
behind them; and Baynes, for his part, feels rather that he has not
played up to her quite as well as he might have done.

The other man is almost equally disturbed about the affair, though
with less understanding of its real meaning.  He can grasp the fact,
though, that there is something more serious than an ordinary lovers'
quarrel.

"I wouldn't like to be in 'er shoes, Dick," he blurts out, "and 'im
so precious angry.  They looks like Othello an' Desdemona in the
play.  Wot's she done, old man?  Wot's all the row about?"

"Oh, hold your tongue, man," curtly answers Baynes.  He is grieved
for the girl who has befriended him, and fears that trouble is in
store for her; though he little knows how bitter the trouble is.




CHAPTER XIX

Norah is left alone with her lover.

No, not her lover any longer;--her accuser.

He stands facing her, in a terrible silence.

Oh, if he would only speak!  If only he would hurl at her words of
abuse, of condemnation.  Anything would be more endurable than the
speechless accusation of that grey face and those burning eyes.

The unhappy girl, distracted with remorse and grief, sways and
totters, but no hand is extended to support her.  Stapleton's arms
are folded on his breast, and he does not move an inch to help her as
she sinks to the ground and crouches at his feet, hiding her face in
her hands.

Then, at last, he breaks the silence.  "You told me, only last night
you told me," he says, speaking very slowly and clearly, "that you
had been at sea for eight days, coming from America.  Which is the
truth, that story--or this?"

She has raised her face from her covering hands and glanced upwards.
It seems as though the compelling gaze of those blazing eyes has
forced her against her will to meet them.

"Ah, don't look so terribly at me!" the girl moans.  "How can you say
you love me, when you look like that?"

The appeal falls on deaf ears.

"Norah.  Have you been _lying_ to me?"

She only answers with another moaning lament, spoken rather to
herself than to him, though he catches the words,

"Ah, this is the end, then.  So soon!"

There is no sign of pity or relenting in the cold command that comes
sharply:

"Answer me!"

Norah, in her utter agony, finds the courage of despair.  She
struggles to her feet and stands boldly facing her accuser, flinging
out her arms in a gesture that implies she has cast away all her
defences, as, she exclaims wildly:

"Yes--I _have_ lied to you.  But I will tell you everything,
everything!"

"I think you had better," replies Stapleton, speaking in a very
solemn voice, though he is perhaps ever so little disarmed by this
belated profession of frankness.  "Listen, Norah," he continues, "the
young surgeon and Merritt repeated to me some wild ravings of your
cousin when she was so overwrought last night.  They, both of them,
put the whole thing down to the unhinged imagination of a nervous
highly-strung girl.  And so did I when they told me of it.  In fact,
till this very moment I assure you that I had completely forgotten
all about the matter--even in spite of what happened later."

"What do you mean?" says Norah, with a sudden feeling of cold fear
gripping her at the heart.  "_What_ happened later?"

Stapleton's words fall on her ears with dreadful meaning.  "Two hours
after you left us, the _Marathon_ blew up.  She now lies--all that is
left of her--at the bottom of the North Sea."

"_Oh, my God, my God!_"

"Tell me," urges the other, disregarding her agonised cry, "speak the
truth now; was there anything in this story of your cousin's?"

Norah has a question which she must hear answered, however insistent
her accuser may be.

"Was--was anybody lost?" she stammers.  There is no relief in the
crushing reply:

"Yes, over a hundred officers and men.  The doctor and Merritt are
both gone.  There is no one but myself that knows anything of--of
what your cousin raved about.  Tell me--_was_ it mere raving?"

"Over a hundred lives!" moans the miserable girl, too much appalled
by the fearful news to give an answer to his question.  It is not
fear that stops her now, nor any desire to hide the truth; the
terrible success of her plotting has put all such ideas out of her
mind.  She is thinking of those men she has sent to their death.
"Oh," she wails, "if I could die now and bring them back!"

Stapleton is not turned aside from his purpose.

"Norah! answer my question," he insists; "speak!--ah, there is no
need!"

No need for words, indeed.  The girls bowed head and her silence are
in themselves a confession.

"Have you no pity for me?" she presently makes her appeal.

"Did you have any pity for those men whose eyes are now closed for
ever?" comes the stern reply.  "Ah, I gave my love to you quickly;
but I did not think that I was giving it to a--to a mur----"

"Ah, do not say it!" cries the girl, taking a step towards him and
thrusting forward her hand as though to close his lips against the
dreadful word--"I am not that--I am not, indeed!"

The impassioned protest brings to Stapleton a faint gleam of hope.

"What do you mean by that?" he cries.  "Explain yourself, quickly."

It is possible that there may yet be some strange key to this
mystery, something which may even now enable him to retain his faith
in this girl to whom he has given his heart to break?

"Yes, I _will_ tell you," answers Norah.  And you can believe me this
time--you must believe me.  I did not set the bomb which blew up the
ship.  I meant to do it--up to the very last moment I meant to see
how honest I am with you now!  I am not even attempting to conceal
anything from you; you shall know the full extent of my wickedness,
to the very utmost.  I did mean to destroy the ship.  But--I repented
at the last and did all that I could to prevent the deed being done.
And I thought--I hoped--that I had succeeded.  Oh, I know that I am
wicked, wicked!  But I am not quite so bad as you think me!  And now
I am punished.  Those drowned and maimed sailors will always be
before my eyes as long as I live, and--and I shall never see you
again.  Well, I suppose it will not be long before the law deals out
another punishment to me--I hope it will be soon, so that I may draw
down the curtain over these sorrows for ever.  But will you not at
least have this much mercy on me to say you believe me when I tell
you that I tried to save the ship, and thought that I had saved it?"

"Yes, I do believe that," agrees Stapleton in a calm judicial manner.
And Norah somehow feels that there is less hope for her in this fair
and deliberate judge than if he were determined to listen to nothing
in her favour.

"But," he continues, "there was your _intention_!  That, at any rate,
remains the same.  You were saved from putting it into practice only
by a sudden impulse.  What that impulse was of course I do not know.
Perhaps you were afraid--just too much of a coward to carry out what
you had been ready enough to plan.  I have heard of such people
criminals at heart but too poor-spirited to become criminals in act."

"Oh, do you think _that_?" Norah cries protestingly.  "This is the
cruellest thing you have said to me yet!  But I have no right to
complain."

"No, Norah," answers the cold calm voice.  "I take back those words.
I have no right to say them I might have known that it was not fear
that stayed your hand, whatever else it may have been.  Let us say it
was your better nature asserting itself.  But, all the same, you were
able to give your consent and aid to this evil plan in its beginning.
And--you would have married me and concealed all this!"

"I do not think so," replies the girl with deliberation equal to his
own.  "No, I am sure I should not have done that.  Our engagement has
not been a long one," she says this with a bitter smile--"but if it
had lasted a little longer I should soon have made a clean breast of
everything to you--yes, even if the ship had not been lost.  I should
have told you everything; and our parting would have taken place only
a little later, that is all!"

"But why," the frenzied lover cannot help but ask--for he is still
the lover, even though he has become the judge also--"why then did
you not tell me all when first you saw me this afternoon?  It would
have been more honest if you had confessed then, instead of allowing
me to continue being deceived in you and to find out the truth only
by chance!"

Norah hangs her head, and makes no reply.

"What reason had you for this?" he urges again.

Then she tells him--"It was because I wanted to have your love just
for a little time.  I knew that I must lose it soon.  And this was my
only chance.  I took it--and I am glad I did so.  I have been yours
for an hour, and you have loved and believed in me.  Now it is over;
and, for the rest, I will not shrink from what the future may hold."

There is silence between the two for the space of nearly a minute.
The evening sky is darkening and a threatening bank of clouds is
beginning to overshadow the western heavens.  A chilly breeze has
sprung up and sweeps across the heather with a mournful sound.

Stapleton turns to go.  Love and faith have died within him and have
left him devoid of feeling.

"Well, it seems to me that there is nothing more to be said between
us," is his parting word; and then, in a kindlier tone, "you had
better go indoors; it is clouding over, and you will be getting wet
soon if you stay out here.  I kept my boat waiting for me; it is a
good thing that I did so."

This is his good-bye--a sorry farewell to love!  Not even one tender
word to pay a last tribute to his vanished dream of happiness.
Perhaps deep down in his mind lies some torturing thought that the
girl whom he must hand over to justice is the girl whom for a brief
while he has loved; but if such a thought exists, he gives it no
utterance.

Without another glance at Norah, he turns and walks slowly away
towards the landing-place.  Norah stands like a pillar of
marble--yes, and white as marble is the girl's face; she follows him
with her eyes, and not till he is quite out of sight does she stir
from her motionless attitude.  Then, with a little staggering forward
step she flings out her arms towards the vanished figure as if to
draw him back to her.  Only for a moment; the sense of her
helplessness and hopelessness comes suddenly home to her, and letting
fall her hands despairingly she flings herself on the ground in an
agony of grief and shame.




CHAPTER XX

It is very trying, to say the least of it, to be overwhelmed by the
waves and storms of one fierce emotion after another, and to be left
finally stranded well-nigh lifeless on the shores of desolation and
despair.  But it is still more trying, under such painful
circumstances, to be obliged to behave oneself as if nothing
particular has occurred and to have to meet one's friends with a
complacent expression and talk to them in a well-behaved ordinary
manner.

Such, however, is the case with Norah, as she makes her way back to
the hut.  How she manages to find her way there over the rough ground
in the fading light, her eyes half blinded with tears, is something
which she herself certainly could not account for.  But she does find
her path, somehow; and, when nearing the end of it, comes face to
face with good Mrs. Shaw, who has set out to meet her, anxious about
her charge and prepared to give her a motherly scolding for staying
out of doors too long.

Norah is thankful that it is already too dark for her face to be seen
very clearly, and furtively dries her eyes as she prepares to listen
to Mrs. Shaw; luckily, it is quite certain that the loquacious lady
will undertake most of the talking!

"You bad girl," begins the kindly voice, "to stay out to such an hour
when I told you that you were only to be out for a little while!  You
will be catching a cold and getting ill again and I don't know what!
Ah; it's no good saying you won't!"--Norah, be it noticed, has not
said a word--"I know you _will_!  But, bless me, you young things are
all alike; while you are healthy and strong you think you can do
anything and laugh at a body who tells you you can't play with your
health without paying for it!  Wait till you come to my age, my
dear--wait till you have your first touch of rheumatism!  But I
suppose you notice nothing when you are in the company of a fine
handsome young man.  And quite right too--you can only be young but
once!  Dear me, what am I saying?  I ought to be scolding you, and
instead of that--by the way, where is he?  What have you done with
him?"

"He had to get back," lamely answers the girl in a thin piping voice.

"Had to get back did he?  Hm!  I should think so--spending the best
part of the afternoon philandering with a pretty girl; a nice way to
employ his time, when there's a war on!  If all young naval officers
idle their days like that it's a wonder the navy gets along at all!
But I can't be angry with Alick.  He's a sad dog, but a dear--don't
you think so?  Isn't he just the sort of man that any girl might lose
her heart to?"

"Oh, I don't know, Mrs. Shaw, yes--no, I mean.  I'm sorry--I'm afraid
I wasn't listening,"--which is not quite true, for, Norah has heard
only too well and feels her heart torn by the idle question.  She
feigns tiredness as an excuse for not making any more coherent
reply--and it is not entirely feigning, for she stumbles a little in
her walk and is glad enough to support herself on Mrs. Shaw's kindly
arm.

So the good woman pilots her charge to the hut, and together they
seek the friendly shelter of the room where Netta is lying.

And, oh, how Norah longs to be left alone with her cousin!  For she
must tell her of the dreadful thing that has happened in the
discovery of her secret, and must warn her of the danger that
threatens the three of them.  Perhaps, even she may find some counsel
in Netta--if any counsel can be of avail in such a desperate case!

But for some time the uninterrupted flow of words proceeding from the
well-meaning lady's lips leaves little hope of a conversation in
private.  Mrs. Shaw vents her solicitude for her two patients in a
ceaseless torrent of remarks, questions and commands, all of the
kindest nature but almost unendurable to the two girls whose chief
desire is to be left alone together.

"There now," exclaims the smiling dame, as she plies her patients
with steaming hot soup, "that will make you look a little bit
brighter by the time the admiral sees you again.  He told me he
should look in here on his way back.  I don't know what he would say
to me if he saw you looking as white as you are now!"

At last the good but somewhat trying lady fusses out of the room,
having suddenly thought of some other nourishing concoction which she
can prepare for the further invigoration of the two girls, and she
leaves them free to talk, much to Norah's relief; and to Netta's
also, for she has seen that some matter is troubling her cousin.

Norah is not long in pouring forth her story, to which the other girl
listens with the utmost concern.

Netta is horrified, as Norah had been, to learn the dread news of the
loss of the _Marathon_ with so many lives.  At first she could hardly
believe it, having been so confident that Patrick's purpose had been
foiled at the last; but she is unwillingly forced to give credit to
the terrible story, and great indeed is her grief.  From the very
first, it must be remembered, she had been drawn into the conspiracy
largely against her own conviction and consent.

But it is noteworthy that her chief concern is for her cousin,
Norah--just as Norah's is for her.  These two girls, both of them
brave enough to face the consequences of their own misdoings, are
both cowards in respect of each other's peril.

"What is to be done?" Norah asks, thinking inwardly how she can
shield Netta.

"We must try and think of some plan," answers Netta, eager to light
upon some means of securing Norah's immunity.

"How dreadfully unfortunate that Baynes should have happened by
chance to be sent to this place," Norah broods; "surely it was more
than a coincidence--it was the hand of Fate that sent him!"

"He was very good to me in Glasgow," muses Netta; and there is a
certain purpose in her apparently idle reminiscence, though she keeps
her meaning to herself and does not let Norah into the secret of her
meditations.

"Is there _nothing_ you can think of?" implores the other, impatient
at Netta for allowing her thoughts to stray inconsequently to the
handsome young seaman at such a crisis.  "Can't you suggest any plan
at all?"

It is strange how the stronger mind seems to lean now for support
upon the weaker; Norah's gnawing anxiety for her cousin's safety has
taken all the strength from her.

"There is only one thing I can think of," Netta meditates aloud, "and
even that doesn't seem to hold out much hope."

"Oh, what is it?"

"_Come in, Admiral, come in._"

Mrs. Shaw's voice again!  The poor girls are never to get the chance
of a quiet talk, it seems!

"This way, Admiral.  You will find them both considerably the better
for their afternoon's rest, I think, though, I must confess I should
have liked to see them a little less pale.  This one
especially--isn't she a bad girl, to go walking over the moor and
tiring herself out when I expressly told her to take care of herself?"

"Well, young lady, I hope you've not been doing too much," says the
admiral, all courtesy and smiles.

"I shall want you both to assist me to-morrow if you think you feel
strong enough."

"To assist you, sir?" queries Norah, vaguely disturbed by a
foreboding of more troubles in store.

"Yes, if you will be so good.  But nothing to cause you any great
distress.  Only a few questions we should like to put to you in
connection with--with your recent experiences, and that sort of
thing."

This is very disturbing and alarming!  Surely, the report already
given by Patrick ought to be enough: but as Norah suddenly remembers,
that report was made to the captain of the _Marathon_--and the
_Marathon_ now rests, with her captain, in the grave of the seas.

Mrs. Shaw attempts to come to the rescue, jealous of any official
interference with the two girls whom she regards as her own especial
care.

"You will excuse me, Admiral," she says, "but if you will allow me to
say so, I never heard such nonsense in all my life!  Question them,
indeed!  You men are all alike, naval officers and the rest of
you--you must make a fuss with your stupid enquiries and official
investigations and stuff!  What do you want to ask, I should like to
know?  Can't you leave the poor creatures in peace and give them a
chance to pick up their strength after all they have been through?
Questions!  Stuff and nonsense!"

"Now, my dear Mrs. Shaw," smiles Admiral Darlington, who knows well
the good lady's humour, "there is not the slightest occasion for you
to scold me or to be alarmed on the young ladies' account.  All that
I have to say to them will not take long, and will, I trust, put them
to very little inconvenience."

"Then why can't you say it here?" snaps Mrs. Shaw, far from being
calmed down.

"Unfortunately, that is impossible.  I have not altogether a free
hand in these matters, and there are certain formalities and official
methods to be observed which I am unable to dispense with.  But
everything shall be done for the comfort of your two patients, I
assure you."

"Is there anything"--turning from Mrs. Shaw to the two
girls--"anything you would wish for that I can do?  You can command
everybody and everything in the place, you know, or at least I can do
it for you."

"Nothing, sir, thank you," answers Norah.  "Oh, yes, I should like to
see my cousin, Mr. Sheridan, early to-morrow morning, if possible."

"Hm!"  The admiral seems ever so slightly worried at this apparently
simple request.  But he answers:

"Yes, you can see him, certainly.  But you won't mind, perhaps, if
you have to wait a little.  Yes, I can promise you that you shall see
him."

Norah is content with the reply.

"And you?" continues the admiral, turning to Netta, "is there
anything that you would like?"

"If you please, sir," she says, "I have just heard that there is a
man here whom I used to know once upon a time, and I should very much
like to see him, this evening if it could be arranged."

Norah's face falls.  What is Netta asking?  Is she going to be rash
enough to court danger needlessly?

"I have no doubt that can be arranged," replies Admiral Darlington,
with much more readiness than he had shown in granting Norah's
similar request.  "What is the man's name?  What ship is he in?"

"I don't know his ship," Netta tells him, "but his name is Baynes,
Dick Baynes.  He is an able seaman."

"Now, how can we find out where to get hold of him?" muses the
admiral.

Mrs. Shaw solves the problem.  "I think I can tell you that.  I
remember hearing the name, quite well, from a friend of his at the
signal station.  Baynes is not in a ship at all.  He is employed
ashore here, if I am not mistaken, in one of the searchlight parties."

"If that is the case we shall be able to find him very easily, and
you shall certainly see him this evening.  I will have him sent here
quite soon.  He will be greatly flattered to be invited to talk over
old times with you, I am sure."

"Thank you, sir; thank you very much, indeed."

The emphatic tone of relief in Netta's words of thanks causes Norah
to wonder greatly.  Can this so strongly-desired meeting with Baynes
have anything to do with the plan which Netta was about to unfold
when she was interrupted?

Admiral Darlington rises to take his leave, bidding a cheery good
night to the two pretty girls with whom, no doubt, he would very much
like to stay and chat for the rest of the evening; for he has a soft
heart for the ladies, especially the pretty ones, has this gallant
officer.

Outside the door he gives one last injunction to Mrs. Shaw:

"If possible, I wish to keep from them all knowledge of the
_Marathon's_ loss until to-morrow.  There is no occasion for them to
be caused needless distress; so be careful not to let slip any hint
of it, Mrs. Shaw, won't you?"

"You needn't tell me that, admiral," she answers snappily.  "It isn't
from me that they are likely to get anything to worry them."

And with this Parthian shot she retreats within the hut.




CHAPTER XXI

"No, Norah dear, I would rather see him alone, thank you."

"But won't you tell me what your plan is?"

This, also, Netta refuses.  For the very good reason that she has no
plan; that is, nothing definite.  Only she has a vague idea that
their sole hope--and a very faint hope, too--lies in Dick Baynes.  He
may not be able to suggest any means of help; but if he cannot, there
is no one else who can.

The stalwart young seaman, on entering the room, finds Netta Sheridan
looking a very picture.

He does not know--how should he--that she has taken a good deal of
pains to produce this effect.  All the electric lights except one
have been turned out, and this one is selected to cast a soft light
on the girl as she reclines gracefully on a couch, leaving the rest
of the room in shadow.

So Baynes, when he comes in, has his eyes directed at once towards a
very attractive _tableau vivant_.  There are soft glints of light
reflected in the girl's ashen-gold hair, and a pair of pleading grey
eyes shine on him very effectively.

"You've sent for me, miss?"--the man speaks in an awed hushed voice,
like a devotee before his idol in a temple.

"Yes, Baynes--Dick.  I thought that I should like to see you again
and talk to you."

She had never called him "Dick" before, not in all those happy days
in Glasgow!

Is it a matter for wonder that after a few more doses of this
diplomatic kind, Baynes is easily reduced to the state of mind which
Netta desires?

But the girl has no intention of wasting time; idle dalliance is a
thing she has no use for, except so far as it can serve her purpose;
and to her purpose she presently comes.

"Now I want your advice and help, Dick, in a very difficult
situation," she tells him.  "It was partly for this reason that I
asked you to come."

"Yes, miss?  If there is anything I can do, you can depend on me to
do it.  Tell me what it is."

"Well, it's just this."  Having come to the point, Netta finds some
difficulty in expressing herself.  There is such a very little that
will bear telling.  Baynes must not know a single word about the
conspiracy to blow up the _Marathon_.  It is sincerely to be hoped
that he has not yet heard the news that the ship is lost; but even if
he has heard this, he must be kept from all suspicion of any
connection between that disaster and the presence of the Sheridans'
party at the base.

"It's just this," she repeats.  "I can't tell you everything, you
know, because it's such a delicate matter.  If I keep anything from
you, it is because I think I ought not to tell it, and you must just
trust me.  _Can_ you trust me?"

"You know I can, miss," thrills the deep-toned reply.  "I would trust
you with my life!"

The dark sweeping eyelashes are raised to let a languorous look of
gratitude escape from the grey eyes and in an instant are lowered
again.

"It is about Norah.  She is in very great danger.  She has met
someone here this afternoon, an officer, who has somehow managed to
discover a secret of her past life which she would give anything to
keep from him."

"Yes, miss?  Well, I am sure it can't be anything shameful, whatever
it is.  Does it matter so very much?"

"It matters very much, indeed; it is almost a matter of life and
death.  And the dreadful part of it is that he is sure to go and tell
the admiral at the earliest possible opportunity."

"He ought to be stopped, miss."

"Yes, of course he ought.  But"--with a smile of engaging
frankness--"are you quite sure you ought to be listening to me?
Don't you think we may be spies, all three of us?"

An indignant protest is his answer to this, and more protestations of
the most complete trust.

"If any means could be found of preventing this Mr. Stapleton--that
is the officer's name--from telling the admiral what he has found out
about Norah, she would never cease to be grateful to you."

Dick Baynes does not appear greatly impressed.  Netta remarks this
fact.

"And _I_ should be more than grateful, too," she adds.

"Would you?"  A very different look comes over the man's face.

"Yes, of course I should.  But can you suggest any means of stopping
his mouth?"

"Only one, miss," Baynes replies, revolving the matter slowly in his
simple mind.  "I'm a pretty strong chap, you know; I might have to
hurt him a little--nothing to speak of, you know, only just enough to
lay him up for a few days, till you can get away back to Glasgow."

Netta is horrified at the idea.

"How dare you suggest such a thing?" she cries, flushing with
indignation.  "What!  Do you think that I should allow you to--to
play the part of the hired assassin----"

"I didn't say _kill_ him, miss; I only meant that I would put him out
of action, so to speak, for a little while," murmurs the man
apologetically.

"Well, to act the bully and ruffian, then.  It is much the same
thing.  I am disappointed in you, Mr. Baynes.  I did think that a man
of your intelligence and cleverness might be able to find some means
of helping me out of a difficulty.  But never mind!  I dare say I
have alarmed myself needlessly--the troubles one frets and worries
over often vanish when the time comes, don't they?  And if not--well,
it's only two girls that will have to suffer.  Thank you all the
same."

This is quite unendurable.  Baynes becomes on the instant a limp and
crushed mass of denials, protests, and eager avowals that he will do
anything his idol desires of him and nothing she objects to; that her
wishes are all and all to him, and that she must pardon him for even
imagining she meant him to use brute force--of course such an idea
was far below her--and so on and so forth.  To put it shortly, he is
brought to just such a state of mind as Netta intended him to be.

She rewards and pacifies him with a smile, and graciously takes him
into favour again.

No question about it, a censorious world would pronounce the opinion
that Netta was not quite nice, judging from the part she is playing
at present; but it must be remembered in her defence that she is
fighting for one who is very dear to her, her wilful, headstrong
cousin Norah, who is too brave and fearless to do anything for her
own safety.

"I promise you, miss, that I will think of something that will put
matters right for you and Miss Norah.  Only you took me rather sudden
like; when I turn it over in my mind a bit I shall find some way to
manage it, never fear!"  With such words Baynes endeavours to
reinstate himself in Netta's good graces.

"But you must do it at once; there is no time to waste," she urges
him.

"Certainly, miss, that's right.  I quite see that."  But his actions
did not bear out his words, for he makes no motion to go away, but on
the contrary draws rather nearer to the anxious girl.

"Then why don't you go?" she asks bluntly.  Having gained her
purpose, Netta is unable to see any reason why the interview should
be prolonged.

Dick Baynes, however, does not see matters in quite the same light.

"Because I want to know what my reward is to be if I do this for
you," he answers.

Netta's pretty mouth curls contemptuously.  "What?" she taunts him.
"You want payment?  I thought you would help me out of friendship!"

"For friendship?  No--but for love!" he cries in a voice vibrating
with passion.  "That is all the payment I require, and that you must
and shall give me!"

With a rapid stride he comes to her and kneels beside her couch,
taking her into his arms.  She neither repels him nor accepts his
rough caresses, but remains listless, cold and indifferent.

To tell the truth, she is just a little bit frightened--frightened,
and still more annoyed.  She did not expect this development, and is
not at all pleased with it.

Women are like this occasionally; they play with fire, and are quite
shocked to make the discovery that fire burns.

It is very pretty and feminine and all that sort of thing to adopt a
seductive manner, but the lady who does so ought not to be altogether
unprepared to find herself successful as a seductress.

Netta has been willing to make use of her handsome sailor as a
convenient machine; it comes upon her like a cold douche to find that
he is a man!

And a real live warm-blooded man, strong and forceful in his desires
and most insistent in his manner of expressing them.

He has cast all diffidence to the winds now.  Forgetting his present
position and the difference in their respective stations, forgetting
everything else, he only remembers that she is a woman and that he
loves her.

"I am hungry for you, Netta," he cries, his simple, homely speech
setting forth his appeal far dearer than any finer phrases could
do--"hungry for you, and 'tis none but you can still the aching in my
heart!  'Tis you alone I want, and I have wanted you since first I
saw you.  Give me yourself and I am yours to do what you will with!"

His strong arms press the girl close to his heart and he rains
passionate kisses upon her face.

With an effort Netta succeeds in releasing herself, pushing him
gently away; not angrily, with the hot indignation of an outraged
maiden, nor yet coquettishly as one who would by a feigned repulse
encourage further advances; simply, she does not greatly care.  This
unforeseen turn of events strikes her as rather a nuisance, that is
all; it introduces an element that may interfere with her plans.
Yet, on the other hand, it may have its uses; so it is as well to
take up a non-committal attitude.

"Is this quite honourable?" she asks coldly, "to take advantage of my
distress and to make a bargain with me for my love?"

"Honourable or not," comes his ready answer, "it is the only chance I
have with you, and I am going to take it.  I know well that you would
never listen to me if it were not for this, and you must not blame a
desperate man if he makes use of the power that chance puts into his
hands.  I want you, and I am going to have you for my own!"

Netta looks closely at him.  The man is so terribly in earnest.  His
fine, handsome face is lighted up with the kindling fires of his
love, and in his eyes tenderness and eagerness are clashing in
conflict.  No doubt he is a fine figure of a man, and if a girl
should fall in love for good looks alone, she need not go further
than this very impetuous and ardent sailor.

She gives a tiny sigh, so small that it escapes her lover's notice.
But that sigh means a great deal.  It means, "If I had no other
matters to think about, and if I felt myself capable of loving any
one and if this man were not what he is, and if----"

A greater "if" than all these still confronts her; if she does not
consent to his bargain, then she cannot hope that he will make the
effort to save Norah.  This has to be faced at once, and there is
only one way of facing it.

"Tell me, girl, tell me," urges her seaman lover again, seizing both
her hands and forcing her eyes to meet his own, "do you agree?  If I
help you, will you give me your promise to be mine?  I will trust
you.  I know you will keep your word.  Otherwise----"

He does not finish his sentence.

"I suppose so," Netta's consent, given in a low whisper, is not very
encouraging, but Baynes appears to be content with it.

"Then seal the bargain with me," he cries.  Netta coldly turns her
cheek towards him, as a girl might do for the chaste salute of an
aged priest or a maiden aunt.

"No," exclaims the sailor, "that will not do for me.  If you are
going to give me yourself, you must give me an earnest of it now."

There is no doubt as to his meaning; indeed, he helps her to
understand, by placing both his big, strong hands upon that mass of
pale gold hair coiled on her head, and drawing her lips to his own
eager ones.

It seems an eternity before he releases her.  An eternity which
gradually blackens into an eternity of shame.  She would struggle and
escape from it, but she is held as though in a vice.

When her seared lips are at last set free, she falls back upon the
couch, her cheeks burning red and her eyes ready to burst into tears.

"Now go!" she says briefly, and in such a tone that Baynes is wise
enough to obey at once without another word.

And when the door closes behind him, then the bitter tears fall
indeed, as Netta realises what a price she has paid and still must
pay for the bargain she has made.




CHAPTER XXII

And yet Dick Baynes, in concluding his side of the bargain, has but
gambled with fate quite blindly.  To gain the love of this woman of
his desires he will agree to anything--has agreed, in fact.  But how
is he to fulfil his part of the contract?

That is a question he is scarcely able to answer.  And as he gets out
into the cold open air and his passionate humour cools down a little,
he begins to realise with much mortification how big a job it is that
he has let himself in for, a much bigger job, indeed, than he feels
himself able to tackle.

There is an officer to be traced, concerning whom he knows little
more than his name and appearance--not even what ship he belongs to
or where he is to be found.

And this officer has to be persuaded not to give to the admiral
certain information which he is probably fully determined to give.

Truly, it is a big problem for an able seaman who is tied by his duty
to the island!

To make the problem harder still, it must be solved at once.  If
there is any delay, nothing will be of any use.

Baynes is reminded of the fairy stories he used to read when a child,
in which a poor lad was given such tasks as that of emptying a lake
during the night with a teaspoon full of holes.  This present task,
when looked at in the cold light of reason, appears just as
impossible.

Moreover, in these childish stories there was always a good fairy in
disguise who came to the rescue of the poor lad and helped him to
perform the impossible task to perfection; but there is precious
little chance of a good fairy turning up at the opportune moment to
assist Dick Baynes.

So this unhappy wretch, bound by a promise which he is quite unable
to fulfil, and tantalised by hopes of a reward which he can never
earn, walks away from the hut into the darkness of the night and
wanders aimlessly about the island, a prey to his most distracting
thoughts.

He knows not whither he goes, but simply lets his torturing fancies
lead him whither they will.

Netta of the grey eyes and ashen-gold hair, Netta of the soft
alluring voice and winsome ways, the girl who fills every thought of
his days and every dream of his nights--Netta he must have for his
very own; and Netta he knows he can never have, since the rash pledge
he has made to her is one which he has not the slightest chance of
redeeming; and to that pledge she will hold him, or deny herself.

Brooding darkly over this maze of circumstances from which there is
no possible escape, Baynes comes to the edge of the cliff near to
where the pathway runs down to the landing-place.

It is still night, and the sea is quite calm.  The rising moon is
beginning to light up with silver the unruffled surface of the water.

A sound falls on Dick's ears as he stands there, in his perplexity
and looks idly out over the waters, a regular rhythmic sound of oars
jarring against rowlocks and of the slight splash made by the blades
dipping into the water at each stroke.

The sound comes nearer, though as yet the boat is not in sight.  It
is not very loud, either; evidently it comes from quite a small boat,
a skiff probably, or perhaps a whaler; certainly not a cutter--there
is not noise enough for that.

Then a dim light twinkles, low down on the surface of the sea.  It
glows brighter each moment, and is presently seen to be a boat's
lantern in the bows of a skiff manned by a single rower.

Baynes still remains watching, out of idle curiosity; in fact, he is
so much wrapped up in his own concerns that he can scarcely be said
to watch at all.  His eyes see, but his mind takes in little or
nothing.

The solitary oarsman makes his boat fast by the side of the little
pier that runs out at the foot of the cliffs, comes ashore, and,
taking the boat's lantern in his hand, walks rapidly up the hill.

From his lower position he has no difficulty in seeing the motionless
figure of Dick Baynes standing silhouetted against the skyline.  He
gives him a hail on reaching the top of the path, and makes straight
towards him.

He raises his lantern as he approaches so as to see the man he is
about to speak to, and at once puts the question to him:

"Have you seen the admiral anywhere, my man?  Do you know if he has
left the island yet?"

The lantern which is held up to give the speaker a view of Dick
Baynes' face also lights up his own.  And in the light of that
lantern Baynes sees a sight which sets his brain in a whirl.

He is face to face with Lieutenant-Commander Stapleton.

No miracle has happened to bring about this strange meeting, so much
desired by one of the two men at least yet so utterly unhoped for and
improbable.  It simply happens as the natural result of a most
ordinary chain of circumstances.

This is the way of it.  Stapleton, on leaving the island, has taken
his steamboat straight to the spot where stands, on another islet,
the group of official buildings amongst which is the house used as
the headquarters of the admiral in charge of the base.

He makes inquiries for the admiral, feeling that the news he has to
impart is of such importance that it can be told to no one else.  It
is not usual, no doubt, for a mere lieutenant-commander to deal
directly with an officer of flag rank in matters affecting purely
naval and not merely personal affairs; but this is a matter of such
consequence that Stapleton feels no hesitation in breaking through
the ordinary routine; moreover, there is no time to be lost--the
court of enquiry is due to be held to-morrow morning.

Greatly to his annoyance, he is told that the admiral has not yet
returned to his house.  The secretary, however, is back, and would
Mr. Stapleton like to see him instead?

Mr. Stapleton would.  So Dimsdale appears, but is not able to throw
very much light upon the admiral's movements; he was ashore tins
afternoon, but his barge was sent for him an hour ago.  As the barge
has not yet returned, it is probable the admiral is still on the
island where he has been taking a walk; on the other hand, he may
have left the island and gone to some other ship; he does this
sometimes, in fact there is no knowing what he may do; he is in the
habit of setting aside this part of the day for recreation, and does
not settle down to official work again till after dinner, or, as a
third alternative, the barge may have gone round to the other side of
the island to wait for the admiral.

Does Stapleton want to see the admiral urgently?

Stapleton does.  Very urgently indeed.

Then, says Dimsdale, it is difficult to know what course to
recommend.  The admiral is dining afloat to-night, and has a meeting
to attend to afterwards which will keep him till close on midnight.

Stapleton comes away fuming with impatience.  He has already kept his
steamboat longer than he ought to have done, and must get back at
once to the ship where he is being accommodated for the time being.

Arriving there, he is perhaps fortunate in finding the
officer-of-the-watch a man very much junior to himself, and so
escapes the cursing which he deserves for being so inconsiderate as
to keep the one steamboat such a long time; and although he makes
suitable apologies for his unwarranted behaviour, he feels that the
young sub-lieutenant at the head of the gangway regards him with
malevolent disfavour.  And as if to drive home the extent of his
shortcomings, the steamboat's crew are ordered to shove off at once
and do the next trip, which they ought to have done an hour ago.

Stapleton smiles ruefully, remembering well the similar worries of
his own watch-keeping days.  He has not the heart to ask for anything
more than a skiff, though he feels that he can do no less than make
his way back to the island and seek the admiral there.

And meanwhile, blissfully unconscious of being so much in request,
the admiral has sent a message back to his barge with orders to go
round and wait for him at the southern side of the island, as
Dimsdale has suggested he may have done; and, after saying good night
to Norah and Netta in the hut, has walked across the island in the
gathering twilight and thence gone afloat and taken the long
sea-route home.  This explains why Stapleton on coming down to the
landing-place found no other boat except his own waiting there, and
so concluded that the admiral must have returned to his house.

The request for the skiff is readily granted, though the
sub-lieutenant on watch thinks to himself that this guest with the
two-and-a-half stripes on his arm is a regular whale for boat trips.
However, Stapleton propitiates him by stating that he will not
require any hands to man the skiff, but will go alone and use the
sculls.  It is better so, on the whole, he reflects.  Secrecy is very
desirable on such a mission as his, and even the anxiety which is
bound to be shown in his face may give too much away.  Better be
alone.

So, pulling the skiff by himself across the placid waters to the
distant island, he makes for the pier at the landing-place and there
makes fast his boat.

Stepping ashore, he is still at a loss as to what course to pursue in
his search; perhaps it will be best to go first to the hut and there
to make enquiries; after that, if no news is obtainable there, the
only thing left to do will be to walk across the island to the other
landing place and see if the admiral's barge is still there or not.

Ha!  There is a man standing at the top of the cliff.  This will be
some one to enquire of, at any rate; and no chance must be overlooked.

So Stapleton walks up to the man and raises his lantern.

And he recognises, as he puts his question, the man whose fatal
interruption this very afternoon, has parted him and Norah for ever
and set afoot all this fearful trouble.




CHAPTER XXIII

Dick Baynes is a man of strong passions but few ideas.  His friends
sometimes described him as a man whose heart was stronger than his
head, and he did not resent the description but rather gloried in it.
After all, ideas can be bought for base coin, but the finer feelings
are a man's own inheritance, and can neither be purchased nor
bartered away.  And Baynes was intelligent enough to deal with all
the matters of his ordinary life and routine--and what can a man want
more than that?

It was in the extraordinary affairs of life that he was apt to fail;
or rather, not to fail so much as to be just a little bit slow in
adapting himself to the problems of the moment.

It is certainly a very unusual problem which he is now suddenly
called upon to solve.

The kind fairy of the story-books has not indeed taken the whole of
his difficult task put of his hands and completed it for him; perhaps
her power has weakened somewhat in the many centuries that have
elapsed since the golden age; but it cannot be denied that she has
worked to the best of her ability, or at least as much as could be
expected of her, in bringing Lieutenant-Commander Stapleton face to
face with Baynes in this most unexpected fashion.

Now it is up to Baynes to solve the remaining part of the problem for
himself.

Unfortunately, his brain is only able to light upon one solution--the
one which he has already suggested to Netta, thereby rousing her to a
horror-stricken remonstrance.

Well, he quieted her then by a promise, easily made and as easily
accepted; but is such a promise to hold good?

If he breaks it, need she ever know?  Or if she does get to know,
will she mind so very much when the deed is done if she sees that her
purpose is thereby effected?

Besides, what alternative is there?  Of course, Baynes does not mean
to do any lasting bodily harm.  He knows his great strength, and is
confident that he can use it to a nicety, as he has so often done in
the boxing ring; he can deal a man a blow that would slay a bullock,
or on the other hand he can give a novice just such a gentle tap as
to make him believe that he is really putting up a serious fight; for
Baynes is a good sportsman.

Yes, but this is not a very sporting proposition that he is in for
now!

Well, it cannot be helped.  This officer's lips have to be closed for
the next two or three days, and there is only this one way for Baynes
to do the job; otherwise--Netta will never be his.

_To do the job!_  An ugly sound in the expression!  And an ugly
business it is, altogether.

Baynes dislikes it more and more, as he stands facing the other man
and deciding rapidly on what has to be done.

"Can't you speak, my man?  What is the matter with you--why don't you
answer my question?"  Baynes has been silent in his own unpleasant
reflections, and Stapleton may perhaps be excused for a little
impatience and irritation.

The words snapped out in his face bring a bright idea to the sailor's
mind--the one sole idea he has been able to light upon in all his
difficulties.  And it is not such a bad idea either; rather a good
one, in fact.

_Can't you speak?  What is the matter with you?_ Well, the matter
shall be, thinks Baynes, that I am _drunk_.  That is why I cannot
answer his question, and that will help to explain why I am in a
fighting mood.

It is much to Baynes' credit that he does not even for a moment think
that this may also help later to lighten the punishment that is bound
to come to him.  He is too good a fellow, too much of a sportsman, to
entertain such an idea.  Having determined in his course of action he
means to see it through and does not waste a moment in thinking about
the consequences to himself.

And mind you, he regrets very much the necessity that is laid upon
him.  He does not want in the least to harm this officer, he has not
the slightest personal grudge against him.  But, there it is; it is a
necessity, or his passion has made it so.

He begins therefore to act his part, and lurches heavily against the
man facing him; who steps aside, so that the seaman feigns to stumble
and almost falls.

"Pull yourself together, you fool," Stapleton not unkindly bids him.
"You're all right, if you'll make up your mind to it.  I want to ask
you an important question, so buck up and listen to me!"

"Don' wan' any queshuns," burbles the drunken man, "an' don' wan' any
lip from you!  So look out for y'shelf!" and with the words he aims a
blow at the other's face.

Stapleton steps aside just in time to avoid the clumsy blow, and
again speaks to the man, a good deal more sharply this time.

It is to no purpose that he speaks.  The man comes for him again; he
is evidently fighting drunk.  And once more Stapleton has to move
pretty smartly to avoid a swinging blow.

Now, his only course is to leave the man and retire.  There is
nothing to be got out of him in this state.  It is a cursed nuisance,
but it is only one more annoyance in a series of unhappy occurrences.

All very well--but the man will not let him retreat so easily.  The
intoxicated sailor comes after him and evidently means business.

This must be stopped.  Stapleton dislikes the idea of striking one in
an inferior position, and still more the idea of striking a man in
liquor.  But it has to be done, or there will be more trouble.  So he
turns and faces his pursuer, and stands to await the next onset.

Nor has he long to wait; and when the lumbering seaman reaches for
him he anticipates events by cleverly getting in a short punch with
his left.

But, to his great surprise, the blow fails to get home; it is met
with all the skill of an old hand in the tactics of the ring, and a
moment later Stapleton has to make use of all his wits to guard
himself.  And the thought flashes across his mind that this sailor
fights uncommonly cleverly for a drunken man!

So he begins to take the affair more seriously, and puts a little
more effort into his attempt to give the other fellow just enough to
make him see reason and let him alone.

Yet, as he goes on, he begins to realise more and more that he has
rather to act on the defensive than otherwise.  The affair is
developing into a bigger thing than he thought--and how the deuce is
it going to end?

But Baynes also is not free from a big surprise.  He has not reckoned
with the chance of being up against another boxing man, and he finds
himself now fighting a man whose strength and skill in ringcraft are
undoubtedly almost equal to his own!

The strange fight goes on in a weird silence, beneath the light of
the moon; sometimes, indeed, they actually have to stop while the
darkness of an overshadowing cloud makes it impossible to do more
than dimly descry the vague outlines of each other's form.  The blood
of both is up, and there is no question now of the one trying to
avoid the other.  Instead, they make use of these short spells of
semi-darkness while the swift clouds fly across the moon as intervals
between rounds, by mutual unspoken consent.

Now, on the moonlight reappearing, they are at it again, fighting
warily, and with all the skill they can command.  There is no sound
but that of their quick and labouring breath, and now and then of a
smothered grunt as a blow gets home.

Both of them are getting badly punished.  It is impossible, in such a
light, to ward off many a blow that could easily have been avoided
had it not been for this.




CHAPTER XXIV

Although he is faced with no mean antagonist, Baynes, without
question, is slightly the better man of the two with his fists, as he
is also the more powerful and has the longer reach.  And there is
very little doubt that if the conditions of the fight were those of
an ordinary contest the seaman would come off the victor, even though
he might have to last several rounds before finally deciding the
matter.

As it is, however, the fickle chances of a fight in semi-darkness
tend rather to equalise matters between the two.  In fact, fortune
comes to the aid of the weaker man, and, aided by a cloud suddenly
blotting out the light of the moon, Stapleton gets in a blow which
the other fails to ward off.  The blow falls true on the mark, and
Baynes goes reeling and stumbling to his knees.

Now is Stapleton's chance to break away and get clear of this
drunken, fighting fool; but no--he is far too much exhausted himself
to do more than stand, with his arms hanging limp at his sides and
his head bowed forward, heaving deep breaths in the effort to get his
wind.

Baynes is the first to recover.  He sees that he must make an end of
the affair.  It is not proving so easy as he thought it would be to
manhandle his antagonist to such an extent as to place him completely
out of action for a few days.  He has no mind to prolong a mere
blindfold boxing contest such as this is becoming and, what is more,
his blood is now thoroughly roused, and the cautious scheming of his
original plan has given place to the fierce fighting lust of the
primitive man battling with his fellow savage.

Yes, he must make an end of it--and the conventions of fair play and
the rules of the game can go hang; the great thing is to finish the
other man off--by any and all means possible.

With this intent, Baynes springs to his feet again and makes for his
man.  Stapleton stops his rush with a simultaneous right and left--or
thinks to stop it.  But the primitive savage now raised in the big
seaman takes little heed of these punishing body blows.  On he comes
still and closes with his opponent, with one thought alone in his
mind--to get him beaten.

Stapleton feels himself locked in a pair of arms like steel cables;
his legs are pinned--this is wrestling now, and foul wrestling at
that!--and his body is being gradually forced back; he is taken
unprepared.  He strains against the pressing weight of the heavier
man; but strain as he may, he finds himself still being forced
backwards, and feels that unless he can do something, and that
quickly, in another minute his back will be broken.

But it is not for nothing that Stapleton himself has done some pretty
good wrestling in his time.  There are not many tricks of the game
which he has not learnt and practised.

He knows that the other man will be obliged to take breath in a
second or two, and that then will be his opportunity.

The moment comes, and with it a slight relaxing of the pressure.
Then, as well he knows how, Stapleton cleverly slips downwards from
the circling arms and gets half free.

In a second the two are closed again, but this time neither can be
said to have all the advantage on his side, it is more equal.

They sway to and fro, and shift their feet rapidly, manœuvring to
get a good hold.

And neither of them takes notice of the fact that in their struggles
they are getting dangerously near the edge of the cliff.

Near it?  Good God, they are over!  Still heaving and struggling,
locked in each other's arms, they come unseeing to the top of the
precipitous bank overhanging the rocks on the foreshore.  The soft
earth breaks away beneath their feet, and in the dark they cannot see
to save themselves--indeed, it would be too late in any case, so
little is either inclined to relax his deadly grip of the other.

So the fight comes suddenly to an end--a tragic end.

Tragic enough at least for one of them.  The heavier man falls
underneath, and is dead as soon as he strikes the rocks below.  Dick
Baynes, who an instant before was a fine, powerful creature of mighty
muscles and quick stirring blood, a man full of life, able to love
like a man and fight like a man--is now a lifeless lump of
dehumanised clay, broken and bruised beyond recognition.

This is what Netta, that delicate, fair, feminine thing, has won by
her scheming.  True, she meant well: her only object was to save her
cousin from a threatened danger and she had no thought the result of
her own actions would ever be anything like this--but what sadder
epitaph can be written over the grave of one's dead actions than
these very words: "He meant well; he never thought!"

Yet Netta must not be blamed too harshly; in truth, the mischief can
be traced to a source much farther back than her own unthinking
attempt at intrigue; it goes back to the evil brains of those who
first planned the vile plot against the _Marathon_.  The death of
honest Dick Baynes is but a later fruit of that noxious growth; and
the strong poison of that evil weed is not even yet exhausted.

* * * * *

The young sub-lieutenant is beginning to be rather worried about the
skiff, and very much annoyed with Lieutenant-Commander Stapleton for
not coming back with it.

"Confound the fellow," he says to himself, "first he takes away our
one and only steam bus and keeps it all the afternoon as if he was a
blighted admiral with a barge of his own, and then, if you please, he
must go and borrow the skiff-dinghy and proceed to make a night of
it!"

It must be admitted that the officer of the watch has a certain
amount of justification for his moan.  However, as soon as eight
bells strike and he turns over to his relief who is to keep the first
watch, he shifts his burden of trouble on to the shoulders of the
next man and promptly dismisses the whole affair from his mind.
After all, it is none of his business: and seeing that in the
ordinary round of his daily care-worn existence it frequently falls
to his lot to be obliged to take on the troubles and anxieties of
other watch keepers, he is quite entitled to pass on his own worries
now; as he unhesitatingly does, and forthwith goes below to find a
fresh grievance in that the watch dinner has not been kept properly
hot.

The officer of the first watch has the same thing to turn over to his
relief; and the middle watch keeper in turn passes on the knowledge
to the rather sleepy and very disgruntled officer who turns up on the
quarter-deck at twenty minutes past four to keep the morning watch.
As his immediate predecessor has been kept waiting these twenty
minutes he is not in the best of humour himself and a slight friction
arises between the two, which happily vents itself in a shower of
lurid objurgations directed against the skiff-dinghy and the
misbegotten officer who has borrowed the boat and not brought it back.

The officer of the morning watch thinks it better, under the
circumstances, to go himself to the commander's cabin instead of
sending the quartermaster, to carry out the directions contained in
the commander's Night Order Book--"Call me at 5.30."

He knocks as he pulls aside the curtain and steps into the cabin.

"Commander, sir?  It is half-past five.  And--er, the skiff has not
come back yet, sir."

"Eh?  What's that?"--The commander, according to his usual habit, is
quite wide awake the moment he is called, and begins at once to take
an interest in the affairs of the ship in which he combines the
duties of upper housemaid with those of acting-God-Almighty.

"Didn't he say where he was going when he went away in the skiff?" he
asks, on hearing the report now made to him.

"No, sir; that is to say, not so far as I know.  Nothing was turned
over to me about it.  I took it for granted that he had gone across
to some other ship."

"Never take anything for granted when you are officer of the watch,"
comes the answer, a rebuke without a sting since it is made in a
kindly fashion and comes from an officer who is known, to be just
about as efficient as they make 'em and keen as mustard on every
detail of the navy he serves and loves.

The sub-lieutenant who had the last dog the evening before, when
Stapleton took the skiff away, is roused to give what information he
can; unfortunate youth, having looked forward to the pleasure of an
all-night-in, not to go on watch again till he should start at
eight-thirty to keep the forenoon, he is dragged from his bunk at
quarter-to-six; and consequently has several caustic remarks to make
about the habits and customs of the energetic commander; but he keeps
these remarks to himself.

As a result of this interview a general signal is made asking if any
ship has seen anything of the missing skiff.  And in a few minutes
the reply comes from a ship in an inshore billet that there is a
skiff tied up at the landing-place without a boatkeeper, and that
this skiff was noticed putting in there last night.

The steamboat is called away and sent in to see if this may happen to
be the one in question.  It proves to be so, as the boat's crew find
out as soon as they get to the pier.

They find something else also.

They find, jammed amongst the rocks, washed by the incoming tide and
half afloat at every wave, the battered and disfigured body of a
seaman, whose wide staring eyes had in them the look as though they
were still seeking something that could never be attained.  A little
brown silky-eared dog crouches at his head, licking the dead man's
face and from time to time whining piteously, not understanding why
his master lies there and will not speak.

And near him, just above the line of high water, another body in the
uniform of an officer.  But this one is not dead, as is presently
found, only bruised and faint, and utterly worn out by pain, shock,
and weariness.  Indeed, he must have crawled half unconsciously out
of reach of the tide before he quite succumbed.

Even as his rescuers come up to him he is opening his eyes and
beginning feebly to try and struggle to his feet.

Very tenderly and carefully they help him, and carry him to the
steamboat; nor is it until they have got him comfortably in the
little cabin where he can see nothing that they bring the other man
also, the dead man on board and lay the body on the deck for'ard,
covering it with boat's flags.

And so they make their way back to the ship.




CHAPTER XXV

Secretary Dimsdale may be bashful enough in the presence of ladies.
"They frighten me, and I lose my head at once," is his explanation of
the fact--which perhaps accounts for the corresponding fact that up
to the present he has never lost his heart.  But away from their
alarming presence he is a very different man, a shrewd, clear-headed
thinker who can put his finger on the essential point of a case in a
brace of shakes, the sort of man who might have made a brilliant
success as a barrister had he chosen to make a career for himself in
civil life.

If he were not a man of this sort, he would never have been picked
out for a secretary; for an admiral's secretary, whether on board or
in an appointment ashore, has to be a compendium of all the most
lustrous qualities of all the most learned professions; he has to be
able to talk like a parson, to diagnose like a doctor, to argue and
persuade like a lawyer, and to do any or all of these things at a
moment's notice; and he must be a cultured man of the world into the
bargain.  Even all these qualifications would be of little use to
him, they would never indeed be sufficient of themselves to secure
him his secretaryship, unless he is a rattling good fellow who can
win and keep the confidence of everybody from the admiral himself
right down to the latest joined midshipman.

Dimsdale is just such a man; his one handicap, his timidity with the
fair sex, is a defect which the admiral, who has known him for the
past twenty years, optimistically hopes he will some day grow out of.
Indeed, Dimsdale hopes so himself; but up to the present he has shown
very little sign to encourage such hopefulness.

When, therefore, he escapes from the clutches of Norah and Netta on
the fatal afternoon of his accompanying the admiral ashore for a walk
on the island, he accepts with alacrity the task of conveying a
message to Patrick Sheridan; this is a matter he can deal
with--anything, in fact, so long as no more women are mixed up in it.

With that scrupulous conscientiousness which characterises all his
official dealings and has contributed so much to his success as a
secretary, he determines to undertake the errand in person and not to
leave it to a subordinate.  The more so, since he looks upon his
behest not as an official duty but as an affair of honour; for with
all his bashfulness Dimsdale has a very high regard for women, a
knightly regard, and looks upon an errand entrusted to him by one of
their number as a charge which he is in honour and duty bound to
fulfil to the very letter.

On leaving the island, therefore, he proceeds straight to the depôt
ship where Sheridan is lodged, and makes enquiries as to where he may
be found.

O'Brien, the fleet-surgeon of the depôt ship, who has been taking a
stroll on the quarter-deck by way of getting a little exercise in
spite of being tied to the ship by the Medical Guard, meets the
secretary as he comes on board and answers his enquiries.

"Is it that fellow Sheridan ye're wanting to see, then?  Begad, ye'll
be lucky if ye can succeed in setting eyes on him, for it's a thing
none else of us can do, an' thass a fact!  Or may be ourselves that's
the lucky ones, for of all the cross-grained murdherin' divils I ever
came across in me life, sorra a one did I ever see to bate this
ugly-looking shcoundrel!  I'm an Irishman meself--though I regret to
say I've lost the thrick o' the tongue of my own mother-speech, and
many's the one takes me for an Englishman, notin' the entoire absence
of brogue in me--but though I tried my best to act friendly towards
him when he came on board, he would have no daylin's with me.  It's
his sort that brings the ould counthry into disrepute, bad luck to
them!"

"Well, where can I find him?" asks the secretary.

"In his own cabin, where he sits and refuses to come out or speak to
a living soul.  He insists on having his meals there--and judging by
the number of trips the wine-steward makes to an' fro I should say he
is a deal more thirsty than hungry--and there he shtays and refuses
all attempts to persuade him to act like a sociable being and come
into the mess with the rest of us."

It is not very encouraging; but Dimsdale is not the man to take much
account of a little discouragement.

He finds his way to the cabin where Sheridan has, metaphorically
speaking, barricaded himself in, and knocking at the tightly-closed
door is greeted with a surly "Who's there?"

Taking this for sufficient invitation to enter, without waiting for
any further preliminaries, Dimsdale smartly pulls back the sliding
door and then with another quick sweeping motion flings aside the
thick brown curtain which further impedes his entrance, and sets foot
inside the cabin.

"Heavens, man, what an atmosphere!  How can you live in a place shut
up like this?"--is his first greeting; and no wonder--for to a man
coming from the open air and the sunshine this cabin, hermetically
sealed, is like a foul dungeon!

Like a dungeon indeed--like a condemned cell, almost; for the man who
occupies it conveys the exact impression of a criminal sunk in the
lethargy of despair.

He is seated on the narrow bunk, with his legs hanging over the edge,
and facing the doorway; he is huddled up with his elbows on his knees
and his face in his hands, the very picture of a trapped enemy of
society.

Yet he is a free man, if he would use his freedom; he can mix with
the other men on board, and he hopes in a day or two to be more free
still--to get clear away from this disquieting place where the spirit
of law and discipline irks his mind and troubles his conscience, if
he has any conscience remaining to him.  Yes, he has made his plans
for escaping to the south and losing himself amongst the
multitudes--though there is one bothering matter which causes him a
little anxiety; that court of enquiry, which he has heard is to take
place on the morrow.

In one respect the dark cabin is extremely unlike a prison cell; it
reeks with the odour of tobacco, and with the nauseating fumes of
whisky; and judging by the strength of both these perfumes, the
occupant of the cabin has been indulging himself pretty freely.  The
effect upon him is to make him even more surly and morose than he is
by nature.

"What have ye come in here for?  What d'ye want?" are the first words
he speaks.

"I have a message for you from your cousin, Miss Norah Sheridan,"
answers the secretary.

"Where is it?  Give it to me"--stretching out his hand and half
uncovering his dark and unprepossessing face.

"It is not a written message, only a verbal one," explains Dimsdale.
"Miss Sheridan asked me to tell you that she particularly desires to
see you to-morrow morning.  I shall be happy to arrange for a boat to
be at your disposal at any time convenient to you."

Sheridan makes no reply to this polite communication, unless it can
be said to be in the nature of a reply that he lowers his hands from
his face and glares fixedly and malignantly at the other man.

For about the space of a minute he remains in this ill-humoured
silence, and it is doubtful whether he has even listened to the
message.  But presently he suddenly gives tongue, and rasps out:

"Tell her I'll be with her at ten o'clock sharp."

"Oh, but I'm afraid that will be a little too early, will it not?"

"And for why?  Did ye not tell me I could suit my own convenience as
to the time?"

"Yes, that is true; but I was forgetting, or at least I took it for
granted that you understood, there is to be a court of enquiry on the
loss of the _Marathon_ at nine, at which your presence is requested."

"And why should I be present?  Do they think I sank the blasted ship?
I will not come, then!"

"I myself shall be there, Mr. Sheridan, and yet it is quite certain
that I did not sink the ship," answers Dimsdale quietly.  "You are
under a misapprehension--A court of enquiry is not a court-martial;
it is not held to try a prisoner, only to sift matters and endeavour
to throw a little light on cases which need clearing up.  As you
happened to be on board the _Marathon_ shortly before she was lost,
it is only natural that the court should wish to question you amongst
all the other witnessess."

"What reason have they to suspect me?"  Sheridan cries angrily
springing down from the bunk to the deck and standing to face
Dimsdale in a menacing attitude.  "Is this the way you think right to
treat a shipwrecked man.  I'll not come!"

"It is not a case of suspecting you, or anyone else," the calm voice
answers reassuringly; "they will merely question you on any points
that may happen to occur to them, with the object of leaving no stone
unturned that may chance to throw some light on what is at present a
mystery.  Probably your share in the examination will only last a few
minutes, as you obviously can know very little about it.  But I am
afraid you will have to make up your mind to be present at the
enquiry, though I regret very much that you should be put to such an
inconvenience."

"It _is_ an inconvenience--a cursed inconvenience," moodily growls
the other.  "I--I would rather not come at all.  I'm busy!"

Dimsdale can hardly suppress a smile; it is very plainly evident what
it is that keeps the solitary man so busy; the spirit bottles, one
empty and the other half empty, on the writing-table are evidence
enough to this!

But the tendency to smile vanishes when Dimsdale reflects that the
excuse is not only rather ludicrous but also exceedingly clumsy.

_Why_ should the man invent such a lame excuse?  What is there to
keep him from attending the court of enquiry, and for what reason is
he so obviously unwilling to be present?

Dimsdale is a good fellow, and hates above all things to conceive a
dislike for a man without any good reason--he rightly considers it
the mark of an ill-balanced mind to do such a thing.  But he is
uncomfortably conscious of the fact that he has taken a prejudice
against this man.  Ever since he entered the cabin the feeling has
been growing in him--"There's something mighty queer about this chap;
he's a wrong 'un, if ever there was one."

And he is ashamed of himself for allowing such a feeling to take hold
of him--yet it will not be suppressed.  It is a shame to entertain
suspicions of a man in such unfortunate circumstances as this!
Dimsdale upbraids himself for giving way to such unworthy
sentiments--and finds the sentiments growing stronger every moment!

"I'll thank ye to take a letter to me cousin," says Sheridan, after
he has swallowed the unpleasant dose of his enforced presence at the
court on the morrow; he also swallows something else to wash it down,
and finding that one draught is not sufficient to take away the taste
follows it up with another.

"Certainly," replies Dimsdale, pleased to see his man becoming
slightly more reasonable, "if you will write it now I will take it
with me, and it shall be given to her either to-night or the first
thing to-morrow morning."

"To-night would be better," is Sheridan's ungracious remark, as he
takes a sheet of note-paper from the writing-table.  Then, in a
bemused fashion, he fumbles in his pockets for a pencil, and after a
little search finds one.

As he takes it from his pocket something comes with it and falls with
a little metallic tinkle to the deck.

Sheridan's foot covers it instantly; the incident, slight as it is,
appears to have sobered him on the moment.  He looks furtively at the
other man, to see if he has observed anything.

Dimsdale's eyes, however, are fixed upon a picture on the furthest
bulkhead of the cabin, proof positive that his attention has not been
attracted by the sound of the falling object, whatever it was.

But he has seen it, though he pretends otherwise.  He has seen also
the quick, stealthy movement of Sheridan's foot.  He never gives a
single glance in that direction while Sheridan writes and seals up
the letter, nor indeed does he look downwards for the rest of the
time that he is in the cabin.

But his quick eyes have observed a little round disc of metal
enamelled with a device of certain signs.

Dimsdale knows very well what this little badge means, and the
significance of those signs.

It is part of his business to know such things.  And he is also well
aware that upon the fact that Sheridan believing him unobservant
hangs his chance of getting out of the cabin alive.

But he waits for the letter to be finished and placed in his hands
without betraying the slightest sign of this.




CHAPTER XXVI

"Under ordinary circumstances," says the secretary to himself when he
gets back to his private office, "I should describe it as the act of
a dirty dog to open another man's letter, especially a letter
addressed to a lady.  But, having regard to, well, having regard to
that curious ornament so skilfully concealed beneath the flat foot of
our extremely morose friend, I think on the whole that the dirty dog
business becomes an unpleasant duty."

With which reflection he turns the letter over in his hands, and
inspects it closely from the outside.

"Now, if it should turn out to be just an ordinary letter, saying
that he has got a couple of stalls for the Coliseum, or asking her to
come and have a cocktail as it's his birthday, or something of that
sort, I shall feel rather a fool," he muses, "but in any case," he
continues with a smile, becoming more of the complete villain as he
warms to his task, "she won't know anything about it."

This at least is true.  The function of censor, forced on him by the
exigencies of war, has at least taught Dimsdale the art of opening
even the most carefully stuck down envelope and sealing it up again
in such a manner that the recipient would never suspect that such an
operation has been performed.

Very deliberately and carefully he makes use of the skill he has
acquired, and the methods he employs are so delicate and so efficient
that in a few minutes the letter opens as if by a magic touch, and
the message lies spread out on the table before him.

It is a very short letter, no more than a few words.  Dimsdale reads
them over and over again, until he has got them off by heart; and in
truth this is not a matter of much difficulty, for all that he has to
learn is just this:


"DEAR NORAH,

"_There is to be a court of enquiry to-morrow morning.  They want me
at it, and I shall have to be there.  There is no need for you to
come, for you cannot tell them any more than I can, and it will only
upset you after all you have been through.  Tell Netta that she must
not dream of coming as she is in far too weak a state to do any such
thing.  I am sure they will excuse you both.  You had better stay in
bed and rest yourselves until we leave.  Mind, you are not on any
account to risk coming to-morrow._

  "_Your affect. Cousin,_
                          PATRICK."


A very carefully worded letter, thinks Dimsdale; the man must have
been a good deal more sober than he looked when he wrote it; he has
his wits about him, at all events, and if he is really a wrong 'un he
will require some pretty careful handling to-morrow.

"And now to deliver the letter," he says aloud.  And in spite of the
fact that darkness has now fallen he at once sets about getting the
boat called away to take him to the island.

Almost as soon as he has started he overtakes in the darkness a skiff
pulled by a single man, and the wash of the steamboat nearly swamps
the small craft, so that Dimsdale labouring at the sculls curses the
coxswain for an unhandy bat-eyed lubber.  But the steamboat goes
unheeding on its way, and is starting back again before Stapleton has
got halfway to the landing-place.

Arriving at the hut, Dimsdale is greeted by Mrs. Shaw--the only
feminine creature who does not inspire him overwhelmingly with fear;
and on his saying that he wishes to see Miss Sheridan, lays himself
open to the good creature's bantering remarks:

"I suppose you mean Miss Netta Sheridan?  You appeared to be getting
along very nicely with her a little while ago!  And now you have
scarcely been a couple of hours away from the place and must needs
come gallivanting after her again.  Mr. Dimsdale, I'm pleased to note
this reformation in you.  But, as it happens, you can't see her just
now; she is engaged with another admirer, a fine, handsome young
bluejacket, a much better-looking man than you are!"

Dimsdale disclaims any desire to speak with Miss Netta.  It is Miss
Norah he desires to see--he has a note for her which he has promised
to deliver as soon as possible.

"That being the case," observed Mrs. Shaw, "you can see her at once;
she doesn't happen to have any young man hanging about her at the
present moment; though if you had been here an hour or so ago----!
Well, well, go in there; you'll find her alone in that room--and I
only hope you'll come out of it alive!"

With this parting thrust at his well-known timidity, she motions him
to the door of the room and leaves him.

But Dimsdale's timidity falls from him, even in the unaccompanied
presence of a beautiful girl, when he has a definite object to
pursue; and in this case he certainly has such an object, namely to
try and sift the mystery of Patrick Sheridan in order to find out
whether there has been any mischief afoot.

Explaining the purpose for which he has come at such an hour, he
hands the letter to Norah, and watches her very closely while she
reads it.

Will she betray any secret knowledge, anything to give him a hint, a
clue, by the tremor of her eyelids or the quiver of her lips?

She gives no such sign, but reads the short missive to its close
without changing in the slightest degree the expression of her
features, and deliberately folds the letter up and places it again in
the envelope.

"Is there any answer you would like to send?" asks the secretary.

"None, thank you," she replies briefly, and waits in silence,
evidently expecting him to go.

This is not encouraging.  Dimsdale did not expect that there would be
any answer to the letter, knowing that it required none; but he hoped
for something a little more illuminating than this.

He casts about in his mind for something to say which shall appear
natural and at the same time lead to a more fruitful conversation.

One thing causes him embarrassment; he is in the dark as to whether
the girls have yet heard of the loss of the _Marathon_ or not; the
admiral, it is true, enjoined silence on the subject, but that was in
the early part of the afternoon, and a good many people may have been
talking since then.  Besides, Norah seems to understand Sheridan's
letter, with its reference to a court of enquiry.

"Have you heard any news to-day, Miss Sheridan?"  It is a lame start,
but better than nothing.

"Do you mean the terrible news of the loss of the ship which rescued
us last night?  Yes, I have heard of it, and am more shocked and
distressed than I can possibly tell you," she replies.

Her answer sounds frank enough, but in reality she is fencing with
him.  Norah is beginning to feel afraid.  Why does this man sit
there, with his questions and the look of an inquisitor in his
piercing eyes?

"Ah, you have heard of it then," he remarks sympathetically: "I am
sorry--we hoped to have kept it from you, at least till to-morrow
morning."

"Why till to-morrow morning only?" she asks.

"Because there is a sort of enquiry to be held about the unfortunate
occurrence then, and it may be necessary to ask you and your cousin
to be present."

"I will certainly be there," comes the frank, almost eager reply,
"and shall be glad if I can be of any use.  So will Netta too, if she
is well enough, though you must have seen for yourself this afternoon
that she is in a very weak state."

"I did notice it, and was very sorry to see it, though not at all
surprised," he makes answer; and then subsides into silence again.

The affair is not progressing!  This girl shows no disinclination to
making a statement and undergoing examination at the court of
enquiry.  It is all very perplexing, and Dimsdale begins again to
hate himself for being such a cad as to venture false suspicions.
But then that little enamelled badge falling from Sheridan's
waistcoat pocket!

In the lull of conversation is heard the sound of a door opening and
closing again and footsteps on the gravel path outside diminishing
into the distance.  "Perhaps you would like to see my cousin before
you go?" invites Norah.  "I hear her visitor going, so you will find
her alone if you care to go into the room opposite."

Nothing but the utmost frankness, she feels, can save them now.
Netta may betray something, but that risk has to be taken; the main
thing is not to appear to wish to hide anything or to have anything
to hide.

"Thank you.  I think I should like to, if you are sure she won't
mind," he says; and after a courteous farewell finds himself a moment
later knocking gently at the door of Netta's room.

He enters, after having waited a while with no reply to his knocking,
thinking that she has probably left to join Mrs. Shaw, but wishing to
make certain of the fact.

But Netta is still in the room when Dimsdale goes in.  He discovers
her lying prone upon the couch with her head buried in her arms,
sobbing as if her heart would break.

"Oh, why are you crying?" he exclaims, overcome with surprise and
some other emotion--at the sight.  "I--I don't want you to cry like
that!"

This is not at all what he meant to say!

There is no answer, except more sobbing.

Dimsdale approaches the weeping girl with slow and hesitating steps.
He feels that he ought to go away and leave her to her distress, but
some new and unaccustomed force seems to lead him in the other
direction.

Yet he does not know in the least what to say or what to do.  He has
never before been placed in circumstances like these.  And the queer
thing about it is that although he feels mightily uncomfortable and
ill at ease, yet at the same time he would not go away for worlds.

Well, something must be done, anyhow!  It is to be feared that
Dimsdale has almost forgotten the fact that he came here in the
character of an investigator, determined on probing a mystery, or at
least on finding out whether a mystery existed.

But he is faced with a greater mystery--that of a woman's tears; and
something within him calls to him to make the attempt to fathom it,
though he has very little idea as to how to set to work.

He is standing now by the side of the couch, the girl sees him and
recognises him, but gives no hint of it.  Her fierce sobs shake her
frail body still, and the ashen-gold luxuriance of her hair hides all
her face as she buries her head again in the cushion.

He is kneeling now by her side, and calling to her softly in broken
and disjointed sentences, beseeching her to still her grief and tell
him its cause.  The sobs come fainter as he continues speaking his
distressed appeals, fainter until they almost cease.  He is taking
her into his arms now, and his lips are pressed ever so gently upon
the clustering gold of her hair, while his words formulate themselves
with meaning more distinct and complete.

"Oh, my dear, my dear, don't cry any more!  Indeed there is no need!"

Thus for the second time within a quarter of an hour Netta finds
herself clasped within a lover's arms.  But this time she does not
shrink away suffering herself to be held in an embrace which is
infinitely more tender and comforting than the passionate clasp of
the other; and although she presently repeats her former dismissal
with a softly uttered, "Oh, go, please go!" yet there is a very
different tone underlying the words this time.

And Dimsdale takes her at her word and departs.  He is very new to
this sort of thing, be it remembered.

But where is the keen prober of mysteries, the unofficial detective,
that entered the room only a few minutes ago?

Ah, Dimsdale, it is a good thing that Mrs. Shaw does not see you as
you take your departure!




CHAPTER XXVII

"But I tell you I _must_ see the admiral!"

"That's all right, old man; you just lie still as you are for a bit
and we'll see what we can do about it."  The fleet-surgeon bends over
the cot in the sick bay where the patient is temporarily
accommodated, and with his best bedside manner rearranges the pillows
beneath the bandaged head of the sick officer.  He believes in
humouring cases of this sort; it is no good contradicting them--that
only upsets them; far better pretend to give in to their idle fancies.

And all the while, beaming suavely and answering soothingly to the
distracted appeals, he is thinking, "I hope to goodness that hospital
drifter will come alongside soon.  Once they have got him on board
the hospital ship they can deal with him all right; they've got
plenty of sisters and nurses to look after him and keep him quiet if
he gets fractious, but with the small staff I've got here--well, I
shan't be sorry to get rid of him!"

"Confound it, man, can't you see there's nothing the matter with me?
It is most important that I should go and see the admiral at once.  I
must go, I tell you!"

"They always do think it most important that they should get out of
bed and go off somewhere or other," thinks the fleet-surgeon; "these
cases of slight concussion are the very deuce and all."

And he nods almost imperceptibly to the sick-berth steward across the
bed; by which the latter understands that he is to go and summon the
attendant to help hold the patient down in case he gives trouble.

Really, it is not a very serious case of concussion, to judge by all
the symptoms; the eyes look all right, and there is no sign of
torpor.  Moreover, there are no bones broken to complicate the case.
It must be just the general shock which accounts for this excited
condition--that, and the reaction after the distressing events
connected with the loss of the _Marathon_.

"Would you care for a lemon drink?" says the fleet-surgeon, evading
the patient's excited remarks; "they make an awfully good brand of it
in the sick bay here.  I tell you, lots of fellows try to go sick
just on purpose to get some.  Would you like to sample it?"

"Lemon drink be damned!" cries Stapleton, losing his temper
completely.  "I'm as well as you are, and if you weren't a blithering
fool you ought to be able to see it for yourself without my telling
you!  Why are you keeping me here?  What in the world do you imagine
is the matter with me?"

This particular fleet-surgeon believes not only in humouring his
fractious patients; he even goes so far at times as to talk straight
to them about their ailments, without any evasion or pretence.  It is
rather a bold plan, but sometimes it has marvellously good results.

"Well, old man," he says, "it's just this.  You have had a pretty bad
time of it--got a pretty bad biff on the head, you know; and unless
you keep quiet and rest for a day or two I won't answer for the
consequences."

"But I assure you I feel perfectly well," answers Stapleton in a tone
of aggrieved surprise.  "I'm only just a bit shaken--that's nothing.
My mind is absolutely clear, and I'm not wandering, or anything of
that sort.  There really is something which the admiral ought to be
told immediately.  It isn't hallucination on my part or any rot of
that sort!"

"I'll tell you what we'll do," offers the fleet-surgeon with engaging
frankness; "you turn round and go to sleep for an hour or two, and
then, when you wake up, if you still have the same idea we shall both
know that it is genuine and no hallucination.  Come now, that's a
fair offer, isn't it?"

Stapleton finds it increasingly difficult to keep down his rising
anger in face of this plausible palavering.  Yet he is sensible
enough to see that he must do so, if he will not fall deeper into
suspicion as one who is wandering in his mind.

"No," he says, "I'm afraid that won't do at all.  You see, I must
tell my news to the admiral at once, while the court of enquiry is
sitting.  Before, if I can get to him in time."

He speaks so quietly and reasonably that the fleet-surgeon is almost
convinced, against his will.

"I am quite willing to undergo any test you may like to put me to,"
continues the patient with quiet earnestness; "ask me any questions
you like, try me in any way you will, and I'll prove to you that my
brain is in perfect working order.  As for the rest of me, I'm quite
all right in that respect too, except for a slight feeling of
stiffness and bruises."

"Well," says the fleet-surgeon, thinking it wise to take him at his
word, "tell me exactly all that happened to you last night, and how
you came to be in the condition you were found in this morning.  How
did you manage to fall over the cliff?"

"Fall over the cliff?  Did I fall over it?"

"Hm!  Don't you remember it, then?"

"I remember going ashore--and I remember being helped into the boat
just now.  Do you mean to tell me that--oh, of course it must be
so--that was last night and this is this morning!"

"How did you get so near the cliff, away from the path?  And who was
the sailor with you?"

"Sailor?  What sailor?"

"You _don't_ remember, then?"

"Oh, hang it all, I remember borrowing the skiff and going away by
myself.  I pulled in, and made fast to the landing-place.  My
intention was to look for the admiral, as I believed him to be still
somewhere on the island, and I wanted most urgently to see him so as
to tell him--what I still want to tell him!"

"Yes?  And what then?  What happened after that?"

A blank, puzzled look overspreads Stapleton's features.

"I--I'm blest if I know!" is his crestfallen reply.  "Stop a minute.
I've got it!  No,--it's gone again!"

"There you are, see!" exclaimed the fleet-surgeon triumphantly.
"What did I tell you?  You see, your brain is not quite in working
order: but, if you do as I tell you and keep quiet, we'll have you
right again before you know where you are."

"Now, what the deuce did happen after I landed?" muses the other,
paying no attention to the doctor's words, but engaged in trying to
worry the thing out.

A voice at the door of the sick bay makes an interruption in this
colloquy.

"Hospital drifter just come alongside, sir.  How soon can you be
ready?"

It is the officer of the forenoon watch who speaks, the same young
sub-lieutenant who allowed Stapleton to take the skiff away in the
last dog of the previous evening.  And his soul within him is stirred
with righteous wrath against the offending officer.

"I never came across any one like him for causing so much trouble in
a short time," he complains in bitter meditation.  "First he blows on
board and turns me out of my cabin; then he keeps the steamboat as
his own blooming private yacht the whole of the afternoon; then he
takes away the skiff and loses her, and consequently gets me strafed
by the commander; and finally pinches four of the hands to carry his
blighted cot just when I haven't got a man that can be spared!  I
hope to goodness they will drop him in the ditch and drown him!"

"What's that about a hospital drifter?" enquires Stapleton in an
ominously quiet voice.

"Well, you see, old man, you will be able to get better food and more
attention in the hospital ship; so I'm sending you there for a few
days."

"I'm damned if you are!" shouts the stalwart patient, flinging aside
the bed-clothes and springing out of the cot.  "Here, give me my
things at once; I'm going to dress.  I've had enough of this dashed
tomfoolery!"

"Hold his legs!  Here, you!  Come here and help!  Ah, is that your
game?"

Stapleton has flung the unfortunate steward sprawling across the
adjoining cot, and turns threateningly upon his chief tormentor.

"If you lay a finger on me I'm afraid I shall have to do the same to
you," he cries.

The fleet-surgeon, is no athlete, but he has the heart of a lion; he
needs it in his job.  He braces himself for an effort; there are the
makings of a very pretty rough house in the situation.

Fortunately, its development suffers a timely check; the captain of
the ship at this moment enters, politely solicitous as to the welfare
of his sick guest.

It is a very unexpected tableau that meets his surprised eyes.

"What on earth--hallo, what is happening?" he not unnaturally queries.

Explanations follow, somewhat confusedly, those of the fleet-surgeon
being much more voluble and pointed than the account given by
Stapleton, who stands quietly biding his time until the other has
finished.

Then he tells his story, lucidly and calmly, again insisting with the
utmost earnestness that he has most important information for the
admiral.

"But," says the captain, "can't you see for yourself that this may be
nothing more than a trick of the imagination?  That knock on the head
you have got may account for the whole thing; the fleet-surgeon says
it is so, and although you seem clear enough in your mind on other
matters, I think it is quite possible that you may be suffering from
the effects of the shock you have had.  You say you can't remember
what took place last night after you landed on the island?"

"Unfortunately, no, sir.  I have a perfectly clear recollection of
everything else, but just how I happened to fall over the cliff
remains a blank to me.  I can only imagine that in the dark we must
have got too near the edge, and either grabbled hold of the other man
to save him or he must have grabbled hold of me.  But, though I have
no explanation to offer of that, the point is that I distinctly
remember going ashore for the very purpose of finding the admiral and
speaking to him.  That doesn't fit in with the hallucination theory,
does it?"

"What do you think, P.M.O.?"

"Well, sir, I wouldn't altogether like to say what there may not be
something in what he says, but----"

"Why can't you tell me all about it instead of the admiral?" breaks
in the captain, seeing a way out of the difficulty.

Stapleton also sees hope in this, and grasps at the suggestion.

"I can't tell you all, sir," he replies with eagerness, "but I can
tell you enough to let you see how very essential it is that I should
go to the admiral at once."

Inwardly he is fuming with impatience; the court of enquiry, as he
knows, must have already opened, and if matters are delayed much
longer he will be too late.

But it is no use giving way to this impatience.  He must collect his
wits to tell the captain just enough and no more.

The fleet-surgeon tactfully withdraws from the sick-bay, beckoning to
his attendants to do the same, and leaves Stapleton to his private
interview with the captain.

Just how much Stapleton tells him is known to those two alone.  But
it has its effect--the captain is evidently greatly impressed; more
than that, he is convinced.  Stapleton's patience and insistence have
won, after all.

Summoning the fleet-surgeon again, the captain states his conviction
that the sick officer really has some secret information which ought
to be imparted to the court of enquiry; and the man of medicine is so
far persuaded that at last he consents to let Stapleton go, only
stipulating that he himself shall accompany him as a necessary
precaution.

This is enough.  The hospital drifter is sent away again, and in her
place the steamboat is called away.  Stapleton and his cautious
medical adviser get down into the boat and start off immediately.

Will he be in time?  That is Stapleton's one thought now.

And the sub-lieutenant on watch looks gloomily after the departing
steamboat, and murmurs pessimistically, "More trouble!  I hope the
P.M.O. will give him a dose of poison!"




CHAPTER XXVIII

Even the least of life's tragedies would be sufficient to unnerve us
completely and throw us off our mental balance for the rest of our
days if we could visualise it thoroughly in all its details.
Fortunately, our powers of imagination are strictly limited, and the
proverb "What the eye does not see the heart does not feel" has a
very true application to those great sufferings we hear or read
about.  The only impression we get is just a dim blurred idea of
horror and sadness and pain; we are mercifully spared the realisation
of each throb of agony, each bitter pang of mental torment.

Even such impressions as we do succeed in getting of the disasters
which happen to other people would be unendurable if we allowed
ourselves to brood upon them; we should probably go mad, or if we
escaped this we should at all events become so utterly distracted
that our usefulness in life would be gone, and there would be no
pleasure in our days.

The common sense of humanity has therefore decided that a limit must
be placed to grief, and that the natural impulse to feel for others'
sufferings must not be permitted to interfere unduly with the
ordinary affairs of life.  Though one half the world should perish,
the other half must still go on.  Though the breadwinner of the
family is brought home by his mates at the mine or the factory
crushed to death in some fearful accident, there is still the
children's dinner to be cooked.

And the constant succession of disasters which comes as the evil
harvest of a war makes people gradually fall into the habit of
accustoming themselves to hear of fresh disasters without exhibiting
any great display of feeling.  The thing is too big, and we are too
small, too limited.  It is not that we are unsympathetic--we are full
of sympathy, indeed--but, well, we just become used to these awful
happenings.  The noise of a gun going off somewhere close at hand is
rather a severe shock to the nerves when it is heard for the first
time, but when the guns are heard all day long and every day, it is
not long before they cease to be noticed at all.

So, if a ship were lost in the days before the war, the whole country
used to be overshadowed with deep gloom which lasted for many a sad
long day; but when the evil fortunes of war brought one fine ship
after another to an untimely end with all her crew--well, there was
sympathy enough, especially amongst those who were very closely
affected by the disaster, but even for these it became possible to
smile, nevertheless, and even to crack a joke.

This was not callousness; it was merely human nature asserting
itself.  And a fortunate thing for ourselves and for the world in
general that the tendency to cheer up and make the best of a bad job
is more powerful than the opposite tendency to brood unceasingly over
what cannot be helped.

Admiral Darlington, therefore, must not be accused of being lacking
in the finer feelings if he has a placid look of contentment and the
makings of a well-pleased smile upon his jolly face, even though he
is presently to bring his mind to bear upon the tragedy of the loss
of the _Marathon_, with so many of her officers and men.  What is the
good of pulling a long face over the matter?  If he can help in any
way to mitigate the sorrows caused by the disaster, depend upon it he
will do so; before long, you may be sure, he will be putting his hand
into his pocket on behalf of the widows and orphans.  Meanwhile, he
has just got outside an uncommonly good breakfast, and is enjoying
the first pipe of the day, which, as all smokers will agree, is the
best pipe of all.  Moreover, the sun is shining in a cloudless sky,
and the mail has just brought him news that his youngest boy has
successfully passed into Osborne as a naval cadet, thereby getting
his foot, neatly encased in the uniform boot which gives him immense
pride, upon the first rung of the ladder his father has climbed
before him.

So no wonder the admiral is inclined to look upon the bright side of
things, and to greet Dimsdale with a cheery Good Morning when the
secretary comes into his room with a bundle of letters and official
papers in his hand.

The admiral begins his working-day early.  Already, before
breakfasting, he has been up for a couple of hours, spending one of
them in certain violent physical exercises which he explains are
necessary to keep him in health and vigour, though other people are
apt to say unkindly that his real aim in the vain one--vain in both
senses of the word--of preserving his youthful contour-line
amidships, the second hour he devotes to what he calls clewing up any
business left over from the day before.  He insists upon doing this
unaided, and it is not until breakfast is over that he calls for the
assistance of his secretary.

It is a pleasant little morning room where the admiral is seated,
enjoying his pipe in a comfortable arm-chair.  The wide french
windows look out upon one of the many indentations of the harbour,
and provide a view of a little hamlet clustered in the sheltering
nook of a glen that widens out at the water's edge.  Over the wide
heather-clad slopes on either side are scattered here and there the
tiny cottages of outlying crofters, and where the land is brought
under cultivation the old men and the women--the young men have all
gone to the war--are working busily to win from the rough, poor soil
such scanty return as Nature grudgingly gives in these high and
far-off edges of the world.  The hardy little oxen too, are called in
to assist in the work of the fields and altogether it is a very
delightful picture of a primitive honest life pursuing its daily way
in spite of the horrid noise and clash of distant war, in a land
bleak and barren enough to the casual eye of a stranger, but dear as
life itself to those born and bred on it, and never losing its place
in their heart even though they wander to the world's end.

"Well, Dimsdale, and what have we got this morning?  Nothing very
much, I hope; anyhow, let's get through with it.  We shan't have too
much time, with this other business coming along presently.  What's
the first?"

Dimsdale picks out a letter from his pile and hands it to the
admiral.  A faint trace of a smile flickers at the corners of his
lips as he does so.

"Eh?  What's this?" ejaculates the admiral as he reads.  "No--I will
not become a patron of the society for supplying bedsocks to
Conscientious Objectors!  Tell 'em so, and be damned to 'em!"

"Very good, sir," quietly answers the secretary.  "I'll tell them
exactly what you say."

"You can put it a lot stronger than that if you like," says the
other, with an indignant snort.  "Conscien----" the danger of too
violent an explosion checks him, and happily he sees the humorous
side of things just in time.  "What a nerve some people have!" is his
very unofficial comment.  "Here, let's have the next one.  You can
answer that any time."

"This is a private letter to you, sir," says Dimsdale, proffering a
large envelope of an expensive brand marked with a crest on the flap,
"but it was not marked private, and so got put in amongst my lot; but
it is evidently meant for you personally."

The admiral pulls the letter out, and reads:


"DEAR ADMIRAL DARLINGTON--

"_My son Ethelred is, as you are doubtless aware, a midshipman on
your boat.  And now that the inclement season is approaching, I shall
be so grateful if you will kindly see that he always changes his
undervest if he should happen to get wet, as I am told one is quite
apt to do when at sea._

"_Of course, I quite understand that your other duties may sometimes
render it impossible for you to see to this matter yourself, but in
that case I am sure you would not mind telling the commander or the
coxswain or somebody to do it, and reminding them from time to time._

"_Ethelred has been very carefully brought up, and I am sure you must
find him a great help to you.  Please do not let him go out in one of
those little steamboats if the weather is at all rough, as I think
they are very dangerous._

"_I hope my boy does not suffer from sea-sickness, but I know, from
sad experience gained in crossing the Channel a few years ago, how
extremely suddenly this dire malady can attack even those who are
least suspecting its onslaughts; and I am in possession of a remedy
which proved very beneficial to me on that occasion, which I shall be
only too pleased to send you for the use not only of Ethelred, but of
any other of the men on your boat who may chance to succumb to this
distressing complaint.  In sending you the prescription, I shall have
the satisfaction of feeling that I am doing my bit for our brave
sailors and helping to mitigate at least one of the horrors of this
great war._

    "_With kind regards,
        "Yours sincerely,_
  "AMY TWITTENHAM-TWITTENHAM."


"Hm!  You can answer that one for me, Dimsdale," says the admiral.
"Perhaps you had better say that I tuck him up in bed every night
with my own hands and sing him to sleep; something of that sort!  By
the way, how is the young monkey getting on?  Have you seen anything
of him lately?"

"The last time I saw him," the secretary answers, "was about eleven
o'clock three or four nights back.  He was with several other
snotties tobogganing down the foremost gangway inside the chaplain's
suit-case and landing in the ditch.  I enquired what might be the
meaning and reason of this occupation, and young Twittenham informed
me that they were Gadarene swine.  Apparently the idea was to try and
remember the padre's last Sunday's sermon by putting it into actual
practice; so Twittenham explained it, at least.  He also added that
another little drink wouldn't do him any harm.  In fact, he appeared
on the whole to be doing very nicely."

The admiral chuckles merrily, remembering his own midshipman's days.
"Better drop a hint to the padre to choose some less violent subject
for his next discourse," he suggests, "something at any rate less
wetting!"

"I shouldn't like to discourage him; his sermons might get _too_ dry
altogether," says Dimsdale, laughing.

"Then," he continues bringing out another paper from his sheaf,
"there's this one:


I--A return is to be made immediately of all H.M. ships or vessels
fitted with soap-dishes pattern number four (noted on list as Dishes,
Soap, number four pattern) and pierced with eighteen holes, circular,
of one-eight of an inch in diameter.

This return to be made in triplicate, stating,

(a) How many of such articles are on charge.

(b) How many are in actual use on board.

(c) Whether it is found in practice that the residuum of soap or soap
and water, occasioned by taking the piece or cake of soap from the
water in which it has been used and placing it in the soap-dish, is
able to escape with sufficient freedom into the receptacle provided
for the same.

II--If it is found that this escape or discharge does not take place
with reasonable speed and effectiveness, thereby causing a sediment
of saponaceous matter with aqueous base and occasioning wastage of
soap, the soap-dishes are to be returned at once to H.M. Dockyard
where the holes will be enlarged from a diameter of one-eight of an
inch to a diameter of three-sixteenths of an inch.


"And yet," groans the admiral, "there is a war on!  Well the rest can
wait.  Nothing of any importance, is there?  I suppose not, if that's
a sample.  We're due to start this court of enquiry in half an hour.
But what's this yarn you were telling me about the man Sheridan?"




CHAPTER XXIX

"Did you ever hear of the Shamrock League, sir?".

"No, I can't say that I did.  What is it?  It sounds like the name of
an Irish benefit society."

"Well, it is rather different to that.  As a matter of fact, it is
just as harmless, as far as its outward profession goes, being merely
an association for the promotion of the Irish language and
literature.  But, beneath the surface, it is really a hotbed of
dangerous treason and some of it members are fanatics of the worst
type; but the majority of the people who belong to it are only
allowed to know the literary side of the thing at first, and are not
told anything about its political aspect until they have been well
sounded and proved trustworthy.  That is what makes it such a
dangerous affair--if one tries to probe it, one gets no further than
the discovery of just a harmless society of dilettanti."

"Well, but what about it?  Do you mean to say that this man Sheridan
is a member of this society?  I don't see that we can bring that up
against him in any way?"

"He is not only a member, but one of the secret Inner Circle of the
Shamrock League, and even there he holds very high office.  That
badge that I told you about; the badge he tried to cover with his
foot when I saw him in his cabin, is one that only a very few people
indeed in the League are possessed of."

"How do, you know?"

"Well, sir, I _do_ know--it would take me too long now to tell you
the ins and outs of the way I came to learn the fact.  Of course, as
you say, it may have no bearing whatever upon this sad business,
but--well, one naturally distrusts a man who is known to belong to
the inner circle of a league of rebels!"

"Quite right, quite right!  But I still don't see exactly what we can
do about it.  By the way, have you got him here?"

"He will be present as a witness at the court, sir.  In view of
my--well, my suspicions, I considered that all three of them ought to
be there, so I made arrangements for the two girls to come also."

"You acted quite rightly, Dimsdale.  Indeed, I don't see that you
could have very well done otherwise, though it certainly seems rather
a shame to put those two poor things up to be fired at with
questions, after all they have been through."

"It does, indeed, sir," remarks Dimsdale, with a keen recollection of
his last meeting with Netta the previous evening.  He held her in his
arms then, and called her his dear--and presently he will have to
subject her to a formal examination; it is distinctly unpleasant, and
he feels it would be a great relief to kick himself.

"I hope you haven't found a mare's nest," broods the admiral rather
gloomily; "What sort of questions do you propose to put to them?"

"I intend simply to begin with asking them for a clear account of
what happened while they were on board the _Marathon_.  Their story
of what took place beforehand seems to be genuine enough, so far as I
can make out--except for one small detail.  Oh, how perfectly hateful
it is to have to try deliberately to be suspicious!  But there is
just one thing which does not exactly tally with their story as they
have already told it!"

"What do you mean?  Explain yourself."

"Well, I see from this Confidential Weekly Shipping Report," taking
another paper from his bundle as he speaks, "that the s.s. _Botopi_,
the ship in which the Sheridan party were alleged to have taken
passage, really did sail from Galveston, Texas, on the exact date
they mentioned.  She was due the day before yesterday--and she has
not arrived.  She sent out the S.O.S. call that same morning; and the
patrol vessels sent out in search could find no trace of her."

"By Jove, Dimsdale, you have been collecting information pretty
thoroughly!  But the result seems to be that the facts of the case
tally precisely with the Sheridans' account."

"Yes, so they do.  That is what I said.  But, on the other hand, it
would not be outside the bounds of possibility to acquire all these
details from German, or rather pro-German sources."

"Y-yes; I suppose it could be done; though it seems very unlikely.
I'm not surprised at your describing yourself as a suspicious fellow,
Dimsdale."

The secretary feels the sting of the implied rebuke, the more so as
he knows it to be a deserved one.  But he has steeled himself to an
unpleasant task and will not be deterred from pursuing it to the very
end.

"I have to be suspicious in a case like this, sir," he quietly
answers; "and that is why I took the steps I did next."

"What did you do?"

"I cabled to the _Botopi's_ agents at Galveston, and asked if the
Sheridans' names were on the passenger-list."

"Yes?  By Jove, Dimsdale, you're a smart fellow!  I should never have
thought of doing that!  Well?"

The secretary takes yet another paper from the bundle in his hand.

"Here is the reply cable," he says, handing it to the admiral.

It reads:

"_No Sheridan in passenger-list._"

"Hm!  That looks bad, I must admit," remarks the admiral, pursing up
his lips.  "But," he adds after a moment's reflection taking a
brighter view of the case, "of course there may be some very simple
explanation of that!  You're right, though, it does make the case
somewhat more serious.  Is that the one exception you referred to in
the truthfulness of the Sheridans' story?"

"That was it, sir.  It may be nothing, as you say; and yet----"

There is a knock at the door.  The admiral's coxswain opens it and
announces:

"Three ladies to see you, sir."

"_Three?_" exclaims the admiral, ruefully guessing who the third one
is.  "Don't be afraid, Dimsdale, you shan't be left alone with them!
Ask them to come inside!  Why have they come at this hour, I wonder?
I didn't expect them for another half an hour or more."

He has no time for further reflections--and Dimsdale, poor man, has
no means of escape.  Through the open doorway sails in a very angry
Mrs. Shaw, with the two girls in close company.

She wastes no time in empty courtesies and greetings, but begins at
once to unburden herself of the wrath that is swelling her motherly
bosom.

The admiral himself is the first object of her attack.  She faces him
with anger glittering in her eye as she begins her remonstrance.

"I understand, Admiral Darlington, that you have sent for these poor
girls on a matter of extreme importance.  I cannot imagine what it
may be, but I must say that I think it is very inconsiderate of you
to drag them out, across the water, at this hour of the day--_most_
inconsiderate, seeing how ill they both are and what they have been
through, poor things!  Of course, I could not dream of allowing them
to come alone--they are scarcely fit to walk.  Even Miss Norah, who
seemed to be recovering splendidly, has had a strange relapse since
yesterday afternoon, and what the effect of this thoughtless business
of dragging them from their beds in the early morning will be is more
than I should like to say!  I hope you will feel satisfied at your
work, if it brings them to their graves, as I daresay it will--Mr.
Dimsdale!  Are there no chairs in this room?  _Really!_--Yes, it is
_you_ who are chiefly to blame in this matter.  It is all _your_
doing!  You are supposed to be the admiral's man of business, aren't
you?  Very well, then, I think you ought to be thoroughly ashamed of
yourself persecuting two poor helpless, girls in this heartless
manner!  Yes, I am angry.  And now, perhaps, Mr. Dimsdale, you will
be good enough to say what it is you want with them.  _Which_ of them
is it you wish to interview?  Or is it _both_?"

"I--I--I----" the unhappy secretary, in a state of complete nervous
prostration, is quite unable to make a fitting reply, and takes
refuge in busily bringing chairs for the three ladies; in fact he
brings not three chairs but six, and is going to get more, till
stopped by Mrs. Shaw's "Good gracious!  Is the man trying to
barricade himself?  Do sit down and be quiet, and allow us to do the
same."

"My dear Mrs. Shaw," says the admiral in soothing tones, seizing the
first opportunity of getting a word in edgeways, "I assure you that
Mr. Dimsdale is not to blame in any way.  It is I who am entirely
responsible, and I must apologise humbly to these young ladies, and
to yourself, for all the trouble and inconvenience to which you have
been put.  But the matter is really a serious one, or else I should
never have thought of asking you all to be here."

A silvery voice breaks in with a most astonishing effect; in fact, if
a lamb were to turn upon the shepherd defending it, and speak a good
word for the wolf, the effect could hardly be more surprising!  It is
Netta who speaks, the weak, gentle Netta!  And she says to the good
lady at her side:

"I think you are very unkind to speak to Mr. Dimsdale in that way,
Mrs. Shaw!  He was most considerate and good yesterday, sitting with
us and talking to us while you--while you went off with the admiral!"

"_While I went_--And I thought you were a timid little thing afraid
to say Bo to a--yes, I suppose I _am_ a goose to get so angry and
flurried.  But the poor girls really _are_ weak and ill, you know,
admiral!"

"That's right, Mrs. Shaw," he replies, greatly relieved to find the
sudden storm has subsided.  "When _you_ cease to be cheery and
good-humoured I shall know that things are going very wrong indeed!
Now, if you will be good enough to wait in another room for just a
very little while some refreshment shall be brought to you."

"Refreshment!"  The storm threatens to work back again.  "Thank you,
we don't require any refreshing so soon after breakfast, as I am told
you naval officers often do!"

"Well, then, just rest yourselves," hastily comes the amended
suggestion.  "I am sure you need it.  I promise you that you shall
not be detained very long."

Dimsdale jumps up eagerly to open the door for the ladies to depart
into the room indicated; he is glad to find something to do, and glad
also that the very alarming interview has come to an end.  Mrs. Shaw
again gathers her convoy and sails majestically away with them.

Dimsdale closes the door gently after them, and falls into a chair
heaving a deep sigh of relief and wiping the perspiration from his
brow.

The admiral surveys him with a twinkle of malicious amusement.

"By Jove, Dimsdale," he laughs, "you were let in for it properly that
time!  You must have had the fright of your life, didn't you?"

But Dimsdale is not to be cowed by a mere man, even an admiral.

"I thought that little girl was simply splendid, the way she stuck up
for me," he replies sturdily.  "A nice, gentle creature, that!"

"What!" cries the astonished admiral, "why, that's the first time in
all these years I've known you that I've ever heard you say a good
word for a woman!"

"Well, she seems to me to be different, somehow, from other girls."

"They all do!" chuckles the admiral.

"I thought so yesterday, too, when you--_when you went off with Mrs.
Shaw_.  She talked so sensibly then, it seemed to me.  If ever I
really had to marry, it would be a girl of that sort that I should
choose for a wife."

"Well," says the admiral, very ungallantly, "I thought she seemed
rather a weak sort of creature; no mind of her own, so to speak."

"That's the only sort I should like, sir," quickly explains the
secretary, "I should be too much afraid of any other kind."

"But--if there's any truth in this yarn of yours, the girl may turn
out to be an anarchist, or a Sinn Feiner, or a pro-German, or
something of that sort; possibly the whole lot at once."

"Oh, well," says the secretary, turning the matter over with
deliberation, "I don't know that I should mind _that_ very much;
every girl must have some sort of a hobby, I suppose."




CHAPTER XXX

The court of enquiry is assembled in the outer office in the
admiral's house.  It is a large room, formerly the dining-hall when
the house was in the hands of its private owners.  The picturesque
details of such a room in a Highland home are still to be traced to a
certain extent in the ancient oak panelling that covers the walls,
and the many antlered heads and other trophies of the chase hanging
upon them.

For the rest, the beauty and dignified grandeur of the old hall has
given place to a very business-like and official appearance; a long
table runs down the centre of the room, covered with books, papers
and correspondence.  Smaller tables have also been dumped down in any
odd corners, and these also are covered with a litter of official
documents.  And to complete the hideous newness of the changed aspect
of the place, the rich, dark panelling is obscured to a large extent
by rows of shelves made of glaring varnished deal and divided off
into pigeon-holes numbered in black painted figures.

But the picturesque must yield to utility in war time; and the room
certainly makes an ideal place for such an enquiry as is now being
held in it.

Admiral Darlington is president of the court, and he is assisted by
several other officers belonging to the base and the ships attached,
captains, commanders, and specialists in various branches.

Every endeavour is naturally made to sift the cause of the disaster
to the _Marathon_.

The officers and men saved from her are of course the chief
witnesses, and many of them are examined in the most careful manner
to find out any facts that may help to throw light upon the
occurrence.

A seaman who was one of the look-out men on the foc'sle is now under
examination, the particular point at this stage being to try and
discover whether the disaster may have been due to a floating mine.
The possibility of a moored mine has already been ruled out by the
experts, who have stated their opinion that the exact spot where the
ship was lost was much too deep for any mine-field to exist.

The seaman gives his answer in a clear and thoughtful way; it is
evident that he is a man whose opinion is not lightly formed.

He says he is quite sure in his own mind that there was no floating
mine.

"What makes you so certain about it?"

"Because, sir, it was my duty to look out for them, on the starboard
side, that is; the night was very clear--it was bright moonlight--and
the sea was like glass.  A floating mine would show up on such a
night just as if it were noonday, and I couldn't help but see one if
there was one to be seen."

This is very definite, even if not conclusive.  But the port look-out
man, who is also among the saved, says the same thing.  And the
statement is corroborated by several other men who were on the
foc'sle at the time.

Presently the interrogations are directed on the possibility of an
enemy submarine being responsible; but this also is a suggestion that
does not meet with general favour, for a similar reason as in the
former case; the wake of a torpedo approaching the ship could hardly
have failed to be seen.

"But there _was_ a submarine operating more or less in that locality
a short time previously; the steamer _Botopi_ was sunk by one early
the same morning."

An officer gets up and replies to this, consulting some notes he has
in his hand:

"Yes, that is so.  But the course of this particular submarine was
traced--she was seen twice for a few moments later in the day; and
her course was one that took her right away from the _Marathon_."

"There might have been another submarine?"

Yes, it is agreed, of course, there might have been; but then there
is that matter of no wake of a torpedo being seen.

It is all very baffling and inconclusive.  One thing at least is
certain, namely the place where the explosion occurred.  It was
for'ard of the engine room, and close to the fore-magazine if not
actually in it.  And the explosion was so violent that it is
practically a certainty that it neither originated there, or else, if
it came from outside, must have set up a secondary explosion there
almost immediately.  The president of the Court rises in his place
and looks gravely at one of the _Marathon's_ surviving officers.

"I wish to put to you a very serious question," says the admiral;
"one which I trust you will answer with due deliberation, however
curious or even foolish you may think it to be.  You had on board,
that evening, three people you rescued from an open boat, a gentleman
and two ladies.  Do you consider it at all possible that one, or all,
of these three, could have been in any way connected with the
disaster that happened to the ship?"

The officer reflects for a moment before replying.  "I do not quite
see how they could have had anything to do with it," he presently
says.  "They were merely shipwrecked passengers, rescued by the
_Marathon_."

"That is not quite what I meant," the president says.  "Let me put my
question again in this way: Supposing these three people had had the
wish to do some harm to the ship do you think that there was an
opportunity for them to do so during the time that they remained on
board?"

The witness again considers the question carefully, and having done
so answers:

"I cannot give a definite answer to that question.  On the whole, I
should say it was quite impossible for them to do anything of the
sort, as they were to the best of my belief in the after part of the
ship the whole time; but I saw little of them myself, and therefore
am unable to answer for their movements with complete certainty."

While this witness is giving his evidence, a signalman quietly enters
the room and going up to the secretary presents him with a long
signal.

"Marked Urgent-Priority, sir," he informs him.

But this is not the place nor the time for bringing signals of this
sort, as the signalman ought to know.

"What do you mean by coming in here?" asks Dimsdale in an undertone;
"and can't you see for yourself that the thing's in cipher?  What's
the good of bringing it to me?  Take it to Mr. Onslow at once."

"Very good, sir," replies the unabashed signalman; he is quite
accustomed to having his missives received with snappy remarks, and
takes very little notice of them.  So he retreats from the room and
once more offers the signal to Mr. Onslow in accordance with the
secretary's orders--and again meets with a cold welcome.

Mr. Onslow is an assistant-paymaster of the Royal Naval Reserve, and
before the war was in a bank.  Now he is acting in the capacity of
secretary's clerk, and at present is seated in the drawing-room of
the admiral's house, having been turned out of his office by the
Court of Enquiry now occupying the room.  At his side, on the floor,
is a large steel chest, whose open lid displays within a number of
thickly bound books of all sizes.

Looking at the signal now placed in his hand, Onslow observes the
paper to be covered with long rows of figures in groups of five; and
he groans aloud.

"My hat!" he complains bitterly, "if only I'd known what the life of
a ruddy A.P. was like, I would have joined up as a domestic, or a
bandsman, or anything.  I thought I was going to have a life on the
ocean wave and a home on the rolling deep, and instead of that here I
am stuck in a beastly back drawing-room doing arithmetical puzzles."

So saying, he reaches down to the steel chest and drags out one of
the fattest books.  Then he proceeds laboriously to decipher the long
signal.

He has not got very far on with it before he suddenly begins to show
signs of interest.  He pulls himself up in his chair and turns over
the leaves of his book much more rapidly.

"Hm!  Better get a move on with this," he remarks to himself; "it
appears to me that it might be useful to those people inside.
There's some use in this job, after all!"




CHAPTER XXXI

The court of enquiry drags wearily and without any satisfaction or
definite result.

To tell the truth, none of the officers constituting the court ever
really expected much result from it.  When a ship has gone down in
such a manner, blown to pieces almost in a moment and sinking without
leaving any trace, it is exceedingly difficult to assign a cause to
the disaster in the absence of any material evidence; and it seems
likely that this must be counted as one more of the many mysteries
whose solution lies hidden beneath the waves until such time as the
sea gives up her dead.

General opinion appears to be on the whole in favour of the theory of
an internal explosion; but the theory is not strongly held, and is
supported only by negative evidence.  And against it the fact is
elucidated that the magazines and shell-rooms were all inspected less
than two hours before the time of the disaster.

The suggestion to call in the members of the shipwrecked party meets
with outward approval, but inwardly it is regarded by most of those
present as rather a bore and a waste of time.  What purpose can be
served by questioning these people?  What can they possibly know
about it?  The idea that they can have had a hand in the affair is,
of course, ridiculous.  Much better cut it out and let the members of
the court get away to lunch!

But no one dares to utter these thoughts openly.  There is only a
smothered protest of deep sighs when the secretary states his opinion
that these witnesses should be brought in and examined separately,
and not all three together.  More time going to be wasted.

Miss Netta Sheridan is first called; and there is a perceptible stir
amongst the officers of the court, and a lively recrudescence of
interest as the pretty girl enters the room.  With two exceptions,
none of those present have seen her before, and they certainly did
not expect to see anyone of this delicately beautiful type.  And none
of them have had any leave for some considerable period, so it is
long since they had the opportunity of setting eyes upon a pretty
girl.  Yes, the suggestion of bringing in the shipwrecked party was,
after all, quite a good one!

And, to the delight of most of the members, the girl is accompanied
by one whom they all know very well indeed; Mrs. Shaw can be depended
on to enliven even a dull affair like a court of enquiry!

On her first entrance, however, she gives no sign of any intention to
brighten up the proceedings by taking the slightest part in them
either by verbal protest or otherwise.  On the contrary, she seats
herself in the chair provided for her without uttering a single word,
and folding her hands resignedly in her lap gazes at the ceiling in
an air of complete distraction.  But there is a martial glitter in
her upturned eyes which speaks plainer than any mere words.  It says,
"I wash my hands of the whole affair!  If you men must behave like a
parcel of fools, well then you must, that's all!  I suppose you think
yourselves very wise and important, don't you?  All right, go on!
And if you are quite determined to make a martyr of this poor child,
it's your own responsibility, and I can't prevent you!"

At the request of the president of the court, Netta tells her story
over again from the very beginning, omitting none of the details
which have been so carefully drilled into her.  It is not a pleasant
task for the girl.  The whole action has become thoroughly repugnant
to her mind, and as for her own particular part in it, at no time a
congenial part, this is now no more to her than a matter for sincere
repentance.

Yet she still continues _splendide mendax_--which means not so much a
magnificent liar as a liar in a good cause.

For is it not a good cause to shield her cousin Norah?  And there is
no other way to do so, no other way so far as Netta can perceive,
except this one of sticking religiously to her plausible tissue of
false statements.

And all the time she is speaking she is wondering to herself, "Did
Dick Baynes manage to still the tongue of Mr. Stapleton, as he
promised he would?"  She looks around the court, and is much
comforted to find that Stapleton is not here.  Baynes must have
succeeded, then.

So far, so good.  But with this consoling reflection comes also the
remembrance of the price she will have to pay for this help.  Dick is
not the man to let her off the full payment--nor would she ask him.
No, the compact must be observed on her side as well as on his.  But
the thought of it makes her shudder involuntarily.

The action does not escape the notice of her interrogators, who
attribute it to her weak condition and pity her accordingly.
Obviously, this witness must be spared as much as possible.

"A few questions more, and you shall not be troubled any further.
While you were on board the _Marathon_, were you left alone for any
part of the time?"

"Yes, but not for very long.  For a few minutes at most."

"Where were you then?  In what part of the ship, I mean?"

"I was in a cabin.  I think it was in the cabin belonging to the
surgeon."

"And what were you doing there?"

"I was carried there in a faint, when I came to myself I had no very
distinct recollection of what had happened, but found myself lying on
the bed and the doctor attending to me."

"Did you leave the cabin then?"

"No, I think I must have fainted again, or else have fallen into a
kind of sleep.  I only remember that they had to lift me from the bed
when the time came to leave, and to carry me on board the destroyer."

"So that for the little while you were left alone you were really
unable to move or to leave the cabin unaided?"

"Quite unable."

Another member of the court breaks in here with a pertinent enquiry:

"Is there any means of confirming these statements?  Is the surgeon
of the _Marathon_ here to give evidence?"

"He is dead, sir," states the president in a tone of quiet rebuke.
"The questioner should have known this, if he had read the list of
the saved more carefully."

"God bless the man," comes like a shrill bark from Mrs. Shaw, who
suddenly lowers her eyes from the ceiling and fixes them in a baleful
stare upon the offending questioner--"what more evidence does he want
to prove that the poor girl was ill?  Perhaps he thinks she is
shamming now!  If he will be good enough to condescend to look at her
he might see for himself that she is ill enough in all
conscience--and will be worse still, if this silly nonsense goes on
much longer."

"My dear, Mrs. Shaw!"--the effort to calm her is, however, not
needed; she has shut her mouth again, like a steel trap, and resumed
her effort to discover in the ceiling something of greater interest
than the affairs of these ridiculous busybodies.

"Thank you, my dear young lady, that will do.  We have no more
questions to put to you.

"The court desires to thank you for the clear and helpful manner in
which you have given your evidence, and sincerely regrets that you
should have been put to such inconvenience in your present weak state
of health."

A violent sniff is the only comment which Mrs. Shaw deigns to make on
these courteous remarks.

"Now call in the other Miss Sheridan, if you please."

Norah enters, and takes a seat on the other side of her protectress.
At the same moment, entering quietly by another door, comes in
assistant paymaster Onslow, bringing a paper which he at once takes
to the secretary.

"I brought this to you, sir," he announces, "as I thought it might
have some bearing on the case.  I have only just finished deciphering
it."

Having delivered this message, Onslow departs again, to do some more
of his mathematical puzzles which have been accumulating.

Dimsdale reads the message through, and nods sagely as its import
dawns upon him.  He rises from his place when he has finished the
perusal, and going over to the admiral interrupts him just when about
to call upon Norah for her evidence.

"I think you ought to see this, sir," he tells him.  "It may possibly
prove to be just what we are looking for."

The admiral in his turn takes the paper and, carefully adjusting his
glasses, reads it through, forming the words silently with his lips
as is his habit when dealing with any document of importance.

"Upon my word," he says to himself when he comes to the end of it, "I
shouldn't be surprised if we have here the explanation of the whole
thing."

Then, aloud he announces:

"I have here a signal which has only this minute come through.  It
appears to me to be of sufficient importance to justify my asking the
court to listen to it.  Of course, it may turn out to have nothing
whatever to do with the case, but on that point the members of the
court will form their own opinion."

After this tantalising preface he proceeds to read aloud:

"Urgent.  Priority.  From the Admiralty.  To all ships and vessels.
Message begins.  Cordite Ammunition Mark 30.A., 007 over 16, type
B.C. one, has been found to be defective, and is considered liable to
spontaneous explosion.  All ships having this type of ammunition are
to disembark it immediately for destruction and are to fill up from
the nearest ammunition depôt.  Message ends."

There is a mild flutter of excitement amongst all present in the
momentary silence which follows the reading of this signal.

"Did the _Marathon_ happen to have any of this particular lot of
ammunition, on board?" asks a member of the court.

"That is a question that can easily be decided," the President
replies.  And, while one is despatched to produce the necessary
records which are to provide the answer, he goes on to say:

"I think the court will agree with me that if it should prove to be
the case that the _Marathon's_ ammunition comprised some of this mark
referred to, there will be little need for us to pursue our
investigations any further.  For myself, I may state that my
suspicions pointed this way, though in the absence of any evidence I
did not think it right to bring forward mere suspicions.  This
however, puts a different complexion on the matter altogether.  The
court will doubtless remember the case of the French ship, _Jean
Bart_, whose destruction was caused, according to the report of the
experts who investigated the case, by an internal explosion resulting
from defective ammunition.  Also the case of the _Fox_, in our own
Navy some years ago, where a spontaneous explosion in the after
magazine caused an accident which happily was not accompanied by any
casualties or the loss of the ship.  I do not say, of course, that we
can be certain of a similar cause for this present disaster, even if
it should prove, that the _Marathon_ carried defective ammunition.
But seeing that no other cause can reasonably be assigned, this would
afford the only explanation with any sort of evidence in its support."

The records bearing upon the matter are brought in and placed before
him on the table.

Once more the admiral adjusts his glasses and runs his finger
carefully down the printed columns.

"Yes, the _Marathon_ had twenty rounds per gun of this mark 30.A.
stuff."  he announces; and the news makes a great impression upon the
court.  Evidently there is little use in prolonging the investigation
any further.  This discovery may not indeed be the true explanation,
but it is at least an exceedingly probable one, and no other is at
all likely to come to hand.

Yet, as a matter of form, the remaining witnesses must still be
heard.  And, recovering from what has proved a somewhat sensational
winding up of the enquiry, the court suddenly remembers that Miss
Norah Sheridan has been summoned to give evidence.

The president rises to address her.  But before he can speak, a still
more sensational development happens.

The door opens suddenly, and two officers burst hurriedly into the
room--two officers who are neither members of the court nor witnesses
called to appear before it in evidence.  This is most irregular and
astonishing; no wonder that everyone present turns in his place, and
rivets his eyes upon these two outrageous intruders.

No, they have not made an error in the room--they do not withdraw on
seeing where they have come, nor make any apology for their
intrusion.  On the contrary, they advance boldly to the president's
table; one of them, indeed, is almost running in his evident haste.

He is a tall young officer in the uniform of a lieutenant-commander.
And as he removes his cap it is noticed that his head is tied in
bandages.

The silence that falls upon the court is broken by a woman's shriek.

Netta averts her eyes in horror from the sight of the unexpected
intruder, and burying her face in Mrs. Shaw's bosom, cries out:

"Oh, send him away!  Don't let him speak!"




CHAPTER XXXII

"Stapleton!" cries the admiral in astonishment, "what is the meaning
of this, may I ask?  Or rather," turning towards the fleet-surgeon,
who has hung back a little after entering, "perhaps I should address
my question to you; why have you brought this officer here?"

"I have an important statement to make," begins Stapleton; but the
admiral, ignoring him for the present, listens rather to the
fleet-surgeon's explanation:

"It is entirely against my advice that he has come, sir; but the
captain urged me to give way on the grounds that this officer's
health was not so important as the interests of the Service.  So I
consented at last, unwillingly, and only on the condition that I
myself should accompany the patient."

"Well, well," says the admiral, finding that this explanation does
not throw very much light on the affair, "but why has your captain
sent the two of you here?"

"This officer insists that he has some very important information to
lay before the court, sir," answers the fleet-surgeon; "but before
you listen to it, I consider it my duty to tell you that I do not
consider that he is at present in such a condition of health as to
render his statements entirely reliable."

"Hm!" says the admiral, somewhat nonplussed by all this--"and what
may be this important information that you have to give us,
Stapleton?"

The tall young officer looks around the room before speaking, and his
eyes light upon Norah, who meets his glance without flinching.  The
effect of this upon himself, however, is unnerving to the last
degree; he pales, and turns away his eyes immediately and almost
seems as though he would fall but for his steadying himself with his
hand on the table behind him.

"Take your time," says the admiral kindly, "I can see that you are
not really well enough to come here."

It is a wonder that Stapleton looks distressed, when he is about to
denounce the girl he loves--or has loved!

Which is it--loves? or, has loved?  As he looks once more towards the
beautiful dauntless girl opposite him, he puts this question to
himself--and cannot answer it!

But before everything he is fully determined to do his duty.

Still supporting himself with one hand upon the table he stretches
out the other at full length and points towards Norah.  For a moment
or two there is silence; his voice refuses to frame the words that
must be spoken.  All present in the room look wonderingly at this
gaunt and silent figure in the attitude of an accuser.

Then he finds speech, and in a hollow and unnatural voice declares,

"I denounce that woman, and her friends, as the cause of the loss of
the _Marathon_!"

To say that there is consternation in the court is putting it mildly.
Such a sensation as this is more than the wildest dreamer could have
anticipated.

But the consternation is not altogether of a serious nature.  Some of
the members, indeed, show by their astonished faces that they are
greatly impressed by the dramatic denunciation; but the majority of
them appear to be rather amused than otherwise--in fact, one of the
junior members gives vent to a distinct giggle, which he vainly
endeavours to hide away under a very unconvincing cough.

As for the fleet-surgeon, he is the first to speak, and what he says
is spoken rather to himself than to the assembled company.

"Oh, he's mad!  Quite mad!  I knew it--I ought never to have allowed
them to override my opinion," he says.

The admiral frowns slightly, and his genial face clouds over.  This
is a most unfortunate occurrence in every respect; distressing to the
young ladies, and bad for Stapleton too.  The fleet-surgeon ought
never to have brought him here.

But perhaps, after a shocking statement like this, it would be better
to allow the patient to commit himself a little further in order to
prove clearly that his mind is for the present unhinged and he is not
responsible for what he is saying.

So the admiral prompts him.

"Have you any proof, Mr. Stapleton, of this remarkable statement?"

"Yes.  She herself made a confession to me."  The accusing hand is
again lifted towards Norah.

Quite out of his mind, poor fellow!  But he must still be humoured.

"What sort of a confession?  Tell us."

"It was to this effect, that the whole story of the shipwreck was an
invention, a deliberate piece of deception and part of a prearranged
plan.  She, and her cousin here, and the man--Mr. Sheridan--were all
of them engaged in a plot to blow up one of His Majesty's ships."

"What absurd nonsense!" breaks in a voice overcharged with shrill
indignation.  "I never heard such rubbish in all my life!  That man's
not in his right mind--anyone can see that!  He ought to be in bed!"

"Mrs. Shaw--please!"  The admiral once more finds it his duty to try
and quiet this very disturbing lady.

But the whole of the court is really in sympathy with her.  It is
preposterous to outrage decency with these wild accusations.

Only one member amongst the whole court appears to take a different
view of the matter.  Dimsdale bends forward attentively in his place
at the table and looks with searching eyes first upon Stapleton and
then upon the girl.  But no one takes any notice of him.

"Hadn't you better take him away?" someone says in an undertone to
the fleet-surgeon.

Stapleton's ears catch the half-whispered remark.  He perceives
clearly that he is an atmosphere of unbelief.  Unless he can convince
his audience, he feels that in another moment he will be dismissed,
his action attributed pityingly to the wanderings of a brain-sick
man, and his chances of getting a serious hearing gone for ever.  He
knows that Norah will not keep back the truth, if put to the test.
This much faith in her is left with him, the ashes of his dead
love--_is_ the love quite dead?

"Ask her!" he cries.  Oh, the agony of being forced to make her utter
her own condemnation!  "Ask her--she will not deny it!"

Norah's eyes again lifted towards him; and there is pride in them.
Yes, pride and gratitude that he should have this opinion of her!

The admiral perceives that Stapleton is unlikely to be quieted until
this demand is complied with.  Well, the sooner this very painful
incident is brought to an end the better!  So he looks apologetically
towards Norah, with the words,

"You have heard what he has said, my dear young lady.  I am sorry to
distress you needlessly, but perhaps you will be good enough to reply
to him.  That will set matters right, once and for all."

No answer comes from Norah's lips.  She seems to be bracing herself
for an effort.

It is Stapleton himself who gives her strength to speak; ignoring the
admiral and taking upon himself the part of questioner, he demands,

"Answer the question!  Did you or did you not make a confession to
me?"

And in strong clear tones comes back the answer, "I did."




CHAPTER XXXIII

This time, the sensation amongst the assembled officers of the court
is one of genuine consternation.  The affair has taken a very serious
turn indeed.  The mystery of the _Marathon's_ loss is not yet solved,
but it promises to have a solution now, and a far more terrible one
than could have been deemed possible.

A quick readjustment of ideas and opinions is necessitated by this
extraordinary disclosure.  The wild-eyed officer with the bandaged
head is not out of his mind, after all.  The astonishing announcement
he has made is not the outcome of a disordered brain but a sober
statement of fact.  And the two beautiful girls sitting one on each
side of Mrs. Shaw are not the unfortunate victims of a brutal outrage
upon the high seas, but the agents of a diabolical and successful
plot!

All this is extremely disturbing to the mental faculties, which have
suddenly to take in and assort these unexpected facts.

It is noticeable that Mrs. Shaw alone does not seem in the least
impressed or disturbed.  _Her_ opinions or ideas need no
re-adjusting, whatever those of other people may require.  She
betrays no sign of any emotion except that of slight boredom, and
does not move an inch except to place her sheltering arms around both
girls and draw them a little closer to her.

Not yet is there complete belief in the truth of Norah's words; or
perhaps it would be more correct to say that the import of them is
not yet completely realised; they are too astounding to be credited
on the instant.

"Do you really mean," the admiral addressed her, "that you have made
to Mr. Stapleton a confession that you and the others of your party
were concerned in the loss of the _Marathon_?"

"Yes, I do mean it," the girl answers proudly, "and I am glad!"

"What!" exclaims the admiral, shocked at such bravado, as it appears
to him.  "_Glad_ that you were engaged in such a wicked plot?"

"No, glad that I made confession to Mr. Stapleton.  And glad that it
has all come to light now--though for some reasons I am very sorry.
And I will tell you all you wish to know--I will indeed.  But I would
rather that you should ask him."

The admiral falls back in his chair and gasps with more than
astonishment.  The magnitude of this surprising revelation is simply
overwhelming.  He is quite unable to find words to express what he
feels.  He can only continue to act as if this nightmare were real
daytime truth, and so he puts to Stapleton the query,

"Would you mind telling us, Mr. Stapleton, just what it was that led
to this confession?  I cannot believe it yet!"

"I am sorry to say it is only too true, sir I myself could hardly
credit it at first, till events forced it upon my belief.  The
discovery, or rather the confession, was partly due to my chancing to
remember some words let fall by Miss Netta Sheridan when on board the
_Marathon_--words to which I paid no attention when they were first
repeated to me, as they had evidently been spoken under very great
nervous strain."

"What words?  What sort of words?" the admiral questions.  "Perhaps
Miss Netta would repeat them herself?  I should prefer to hear them
at first-hand."

"Oh--oh--oh!" Netta wails; she is incapable of saying more than this,
and again buries her head in the bosom of Mrs. Shaw, after the manner
of the action popularly ascribed to the ostrich when trouble
threatens.

"Poor girl," cries the secretary, in quite an unusually stern voice.
"She's--she's ill, sir.  She is not in a fit state to be pressed to
speak!"

"I will speak for her," calmly says her cousin.  "It is perfectly
true that we were all three of us in a plot to blow up the ship--but
it was I alone who had to do the actual deed.  I had the bomb."

"Oh, Norah, Norah," moans the other girl, "must you do this?"

"Was it a statement of this sort you meant when you referred to words
let fall by Miss Netta on board the _Marathon_?" asks the admiral of
Stapleton.

"Yes, sir, that was it exactly.  It appears that she suddenly
repented of her part in the affair, and tried to tell the surgeon and
another officer about it in order to get them to take the necessary
action and save the ship."

"Who was that other officer?  Was he rescued, or----?"

"No, sir, he was lost with the ship.  Neither he nor the surgeon paid
any attention to what they considered the girl's ravings, and in fact
did not tell me anything about it till much later, and then as it
were by way of a joke."

"A _joke_!  But you were first lieutenant of the ship; did you treat
the matter as a joke yourself?"

"No, sir.  Though I thought as they did, that the words were those of
a girl who was not responsible for what she was saying.  But
nevertheless, I caused a search to be made throughout the ship, both
on the upper deck and the main deck, I knew that none of the party
could have gone further below than that."

"You acted quite rightly.  And you found nothing?"

"Nothing, sir.  And that, I suppose, is what caused me to forget all
about the matter until later."

"And a pity you ever remembered it!" cries Mrs. Shaw, no longer able
to contain her indignation.  "No, Admiral Darlington, it's no use
your telling me to hold my tongue; it's high time that someone
possessed of a little common-sense should speak a word.  Can't you
see for yourself that the surgeon on board the _Marathon_ was quite
right?  _He_ didn't believe a word of all this poor frightened girl's
imaginary story--_he_ put it down to the right cause, their
sufferings; and he ought to know, being a doctor, a good deal better
than this fool of a nephew of mine who has obviously only begun to
believe in the story since he has had this knock on the head which
has made him crazy for the time being!  To put it plainly, they are
all three of them a little unhinged.  As for the girls, on the top of
all they have been through I suppose they must have somehow or other
got to hear about the loss of the _Marathon_--you can't keep these
things secret, however much you may try--and, as a result, they have
just _dreamt_ this ridiculous story!  I'm surprised at your listening
to it!"

"Well, Mrs. Shaw, upon my word, I'm more than half inclined to agree
with you," mutters the admiral.  And the whole of the court, braced
by the cold douche of Mrs. Shaw's plain common-sense, begins to think
that perhaps it has been a little too ready to give credence to the
sensation offered it.

Stapleton himself is to a certain extent impressed by this view of
the situation.  He forgets, for the moment, the meeting of Dick
Baynes and Norah in his presence, and the disclosure of her having
been in Glasgow the previous week.  Nor can he be blamed for
forgetting, after such a shaking-up as he has had in falling over the
cliff.  He almost begins himself to believe that they have all of
them been the victims of hallucination; and there is the opinion of
the fleet-surgeon to back up this belief.

"May I ask a question, sir?"  It is Norah who is unexpectedly
addressing the admiral.

"Certainly you may, my dear Miss Sheridan."  The admiral is actuated
by very kindly feelings towards the girl whom he regards with more
than a little pity--"of course you may.  What is it you wish to ask?"

"I would like to ask Mr. Stapleton if he thinks that I was in my
right mind at the time I made my confession to him."

It is a terribly difficult position, that in which Stapleton finds
himself now.  He came here to accuse and denounce this girl it is
true; but his accusation has been coldly received and largely
discredited--in so far that he himself is half converted to the view
that the whole charge is a phantasy of the imagination.  And, now,
the thought uppermost in his mind is how he may save Norah from the
consequences of her own action; for he has made one great discovery
since he came into the room--that his love for her is not dead, but
stronger than ever.

"What have you to say to this, Stapleton?" says the admiral, noting
the silence of the young officer.

"I would rather not answer the question, sir."

"But I am afraid I must insist upon your doing so."

"Yes," Norah adds to the admiral's quiet command, "answer me, please."

"Why do you torture me?" cries the unhappy lover, goaded beyond
endurance, "can't you see that you are making me----"

"Answer me!"

"Come, Stapleton," urges the admiral, "we are waiting."

Thus constrained, Stapleton at last makes answer.

"She seemed to me to be entirely in possession of her senses."

"And did you believe what I told you?" continues Norah.  She will not
spare him.

Again he takes refuge in silence.

"Will you answer her, please?" somewhat impatiently speaks the
admiral.

"I could not help believing her."

"Thank you.  There is only one more question I want to ask you," the
girl continues.  "Having heard all that has been said here, what do
you now believe to have been the cause of the blowing up of the
_Marathon_?"

Instead of replying to her, Stapleton faces the president of the
court, and in a clear, steady voice makes a moving appeal for mercy.

"Sir," he cries, "I submit that the questions now put to me are such
as I ought not to be called upon to answer, for the reason that they
all tend to prejudice the case against these young ladies.  I came
here to accuse them, true!  It was my duty to do so.  But it is not
my duty to help them to condemn themselves.  And there is another
thing which must be said--neither of these two girls actually had a
hand in depositing the bomb on board.  One of them dissociated
herself from the attempt at a very early stage, and the other--this
lady who has tried so hard to influence this court against
herself--not only repented of her share in the plot but really did
her utmost to prevent it being carried out."

"What do you mean by that last remark?  Explain yourself please," the
admiral says.

"She had the bomb concealed in her dress, and according to
arrangement, her part in the affair was to place it somewhere in the
ship before making her escape with the others.  She refused to do so.
And when the man of the party tried to seize the bomb from her, she
resisted him, in the effort to save the ship from destruction."

"Dear me!" ejaculates the president, "well, well!  This is really a
most extraordinary state of affairs altogether.  What on earth could
have induced you," turning to Norah, "to take part in such a terrible
business, such a wicked scheme?"

"I was brought up from childhood to hate the English," Norah answers.
"My father hated them, and trained me up in his own ideas.  At first
I made his opinions my own just because they were my father's; but
afterwards I came to hold them and believe in them on my own account.
You see, my father was killed by the English.  And that broke my
mother's heart--she died, too.  Do you think I had great cause to
feel friendship for the nation that brought them both to their death?"

"Poor girl, poor girl!" exclaims the admiral, almost forgetting her
complicity in the plot in his sympathy for her troubled life.  "Then
you say it was just your inherited hatred of England that prompted
you to take part in this conspiracy, you and your cousin here?"

"No, sir, not Netta.  She was cowed by her brother, and persuaded by
myself.  You must not blame her, I tell you; in her heart she was
against it from the very beginning--only, she was forced into it.
Netta is innocent--at any rate in intention; as for myself, I do not
want any excuses to be made for me, and I neither ask nor desire any
mercy to be shown me."

"You were fully determined, you say, to carry out this wicked plan to
the very end?"

"Yes, I really meant to do the deed.  I hated all the English."

"And--you hate us still?"

"I--no, not now; God forgive us, I cannot do so now."

"But did you not, then, actually place this bomb in the ship?"

"No, sir, it was taken from me by my cousin, Patrick."

"Then, did he find means to conceal it on board the _Marathon_?"

"I do not know.  But I suppose he must have done so, since the ship
blew up."

This proves too much for good Mrs. Shaw.  She cannot keep silent any
longer.

"Oh, I have no patience with any of you!" she exclaims, in superb
disregard of officialdom.  "Norah, I should like to shake you!  I
should like to shake all of you!  Isn't it enough for you to know
that there was a lot of bad gunpowder on board the ship?  What other
explanation do you want?  Nasty dangerous stuff at the best of times,
and goodness only knows how dangerous it must be when it has turned
sour and gone bad or whatever it is that happens to it.  You seem to
have forgotten all about that, and here you are listening to a
crack-brained fellow and a couple of hysterical girls with a
cock-and-bull story of a plot and a bomb!  Really, for a lot of
grown-up men, I'm ashamed of you all!"

There is something in what she says.  Her words are not without their
effect upon her listeners.  On all sides there is evident by the
expression of their faces that they would much prefer to believe in
the more rational explanation supplied by the knowledge of the
defective ammunition, and that they are not quite certain that they
are not making fools of themselves in giving a hearing to this
strange story which appears more and more as it goes on to be based
on nothing firmer than an over-excited imagination.

"I think, sir," remarks an officer, voicing the opinions of the rest,
"that while no doubt this that we have just been told should of
course be thoroughly sifted, we certainly ought not to lose sight of
the possibilities of the defective cordite; and I cannot refrain from
giving my opinion that when we have concluded the examination it is
in this that we shall find, so far as we can ever hope to find, the
real cause of the _Marathon's_ loss."

A chorus of murmured approval follows the speaker as he ends this
direct little speech; and the universal wish is evidently for
suppressing the melodramatic story-tellers; nobody really believes in
them--their story fails to convince.  And in all probability if they
can be decently dismissed now, the whole incident will presently be
allowed to sink into oblivion.

But there is always, at a public gathering, which the majority are
anxious to see ended, some annoying person who is possessed of an
equally keen desire to prolong the proceedings.

It is so on this present occasion.  Rising in his place, an officer
of the court suggests:

"There is one thing which I consider we ought to do at once, without
waiting further, in regard to this matter."

All the others cast glances of profound disgust upon this officious
busybody.  The luncheon hour has long gone by, forgotten in the
excitement of the unexpected interlude; and now, if there is more
talking to be done that will not brook delay, heaven only knows what
hour it will be before anyone is able to get a feed!

"Well, and what is it?"  The admiral, unconsciously affected by the
same corporeal needs as the others, is just a little short-tempered.

"I think, sir, that we ought to hear the statement of the other
witness of the--the three shipwrecked passengers, the man of the
party."

They have forgotten Patrick Sheridan!  Only this annoying suggestion
recalls his existence to the minds of the assembled officers.

"Yes, perhaps you are right," says the admiral, suppressing a sigh.
He is very hungry!  "I suppose we ought to examine him as well as the
others.  Perhaps he will be able to account for these--these somewhat
improbable theories we have been listening to.  Bring him in, and
let's get it over!"




CHAPTER XXXIV

Patrick Sheridan had a disquieting fear of this Court of Enquiry ever
since he first heard that it was about to be held, and that he
himself would be required to be present at it, and give evidence.

"Ye never can tell," his anxiety prompts him to reflect, "what may
slip from your tongue without thinking, the way they bother you with
their cunning questions till ye're in the divil's own danger of
letting fall the truth whether ye will or no!  'Tis the mean,
underhand way to treat a man!  What chance does it give him to keep
cool, and tell lies with an honest face?"

He resents the prospect of this unfair treatment very bitterly.

One hope alone buoys him up--that the girls will not be present to
contradict his story, and so spoil his chances of deceiving the
court.  Alone, he should not find this task a very difficult one; he
only has to repeat the story he has already told and refrain as far
as possible from overloading it with details which may not bear
investigation.  And so far as he knows, there is not likely to be any
doubt cast upon his narrative by the officers of the court.

So far as he knows!  His anxiety would be considerably greater than
it already is if he only knew how far his story has been brought into
suspicion even before he has told it!

The first blow to his sense of security is when he enters the
court-room and perceives Norah and Netta seated opposite to him.  A
flush of fear and anger wells up over his dark visage--anger, because
he thinks that this secretary-fellow has betrayed him by failing to
deliver his letter to Norah telling her not to appear at the court,
nor to allow Netta to come.  A dirty trick!  If a man cannot trust
another to perform an important errand like this, what is there left
in the world of honour and loyalty, and the obligations of duty
between gentlemen, and what faith can any longer be placed in human
nature?

Yes, the girls are here, worse luck, so there can be no doubt that
his note was never delivered!

One does not like to imagine how deeply wounded would be Patrick's
sense of outraged honour, if only he knew that his letter had indeed
been delivered, but had first been opened and read clandestinely!
His hopes for the future of humanity would probably have dwindled
into utter despair!

Up to the moment of his entering the room Patrick has felt, on the
whole, that matters have gone fairly well, and he has every cause for
self-congratulation: with any luck, he and the girls should be able
to get away from this vicinity very soon, perhaps this same
afternoon, and hide themselves in some place where they can pursue
their plans for another attempt of the same sort.

But, next time, the plans will have to be laid very much more
carefully, he can see that!  A first experiment always reveals many
little details that have been overlooked in spite of the belief that
every care has been taken; another time, the experience gained in
this first endeavour will teach many a useful lesson.

Still, however faulty the first plan may have been, there is this to
be said--that the _Marathon_ has undoubtedly been blown up, and now
lies where Patrick would like to have the remainder of the British
Navy lie, at the bottom of the sea.  The news of it was not long in
reaching his ears; scarcely had he been an hour on board the Depôt
ship when he heard of it, and he had great difficulty at the time in
checking the grin of delight that involuntarily expressed his real
feelings; once he had obtained the mastery over his features it was
an easier matter to frame the suitable words to signify his horror
and grief at the dreadful catastrophe.

Patrick Sheridan does not present a very attractive appearance as he
glares around the room where the court is assembled.  His face is
livid and his eyes are bloodshot.  The hours he has been spending
alone shut up in his almost hermetically-sealed cabin have not tended
to give him a healthy look; and the continual whisky-drinking in
which those hours have been mostly spent has added the last touch to
the brutalising of a face already darkened and distorted by the evil
workings of his mind added to the natural moroseness of his
disposition.

He throws a look of anger and contempt at Norah, who meets his glance
fearlessly; another glare of still more bitter hatred he turns upon
the secretary.

A chair is brought for him, and he is politely requested to be
seated.  The admiral greets him with a courteous, if somewhat cool,
good-morning.

Such politeness is in itself quite enough to arouse Sheridan's
suspicions.  He does not like the look of things at all; this
behaviour savours too much of the unnatural kindness which gaolers
show to a man about to be executed, when there is no point of denying
a little to one who is shortly going to lose all.

This very uncomfortable sensation is not without its effect upon
Patrick's excited mind.  He ignores the steps taken for his personal
comfort, waving angrily aside the man who has politely brought a
chair for him, and shouting to the court at large:

"I protest against this unwarrantable treatment!  I'd have ye to
understand that I consider ye a set of bullyin' tyrants, iv'ry wan o'
ye!  Haven't I already given ye all the information within my power
about the shipwreck?  An' for why have I been kept shut up in a room
by myself, and then brought here like a prisoner in a dock?  I
protest against it, I say!"

This fellow doth protest too much, thinks Dimsdale; but he discreetly
keeps his thoughts to himself, and attempts no interference with the
routine of the enquiry.

"I am very sorry indeed if you have been put to any annoyance or
inconvenience," says the suave voice of the admiral; "and I hope you
will quite understand that the only object in requesting you to be
present here this morning is that we may obtain your kind assistance
in our attempts to clear up the mystery of the _Marathon_.  We shall
not keep you very long, if you will be good enough to answer a few
questions which I wish to put to you."

Patrick is to a certain extent soothed by this friendly speech.  He
begins to realise, too, that he has made a mistake in openly showing
his suspicious fears.  So, endeavouring to rectify this initial
error, he replies:

"I'll answer anything ye like to ask--though, mind you, I still
consider you are treating me very unhandsomely."

"I wish for nothing better than to be able to make you an apology,
presently, Mr. Sheridan.  It is only fair to tell you, to begin with,
that a very extraordinary charge has been made here in this court
against yourself and the two ladies of your party--no less than a
charge of conspiracy to destroy one of His Majesty's ships of war.
In other words, to put the matter plainly, one of the _Marathon's_
officers has stated that you all contrived to get taken on board for
this exact purpose; and one of the young ladies, at any rate, makes
no attempt to deny the story, but as a matter of fact confesses the
truth of it."

Patrick has managed with the utmost difficulty to keep his features
under control during this speech of the president; fortunately for
him, his general expression is so malevolent that a slight additional
shade of angry terror makes scarcely any perceptible difference.

"How can ye give heed to such crazy fancies, sir?" he asks with
assumed nonchalance--"sure, the terrible experience they have been
through has turned their brains!  Ye haven't brought me here, I
trust, to question me on such fool's talk as this?"

He speaks in an assured tone of half angry, half amused, contempt;
hoping by sheer audacity to avoid this terribly dangerous pitfall
which has yawned before his feet.  And succeeds better than he has
dared to hope, not knowing how well his words attune with the
sentiments of the court.

"Exactly," says the president; "our sincere hope--and I think I may
say, our expectation--is, that it may prove to be, as you say, an
invention of overheated imaginations; and in that case, we shall be
very ready to make allowance for the very natural mental distress
resulting from all these shocking events."

Sheridan nods in acquiescence, thinking it best to say as little as
possible and hoping devoutly that the incident may be regarded as
closed.

And in fact the president goes on to talk of other matters.

"Now, the first question I wish to put to you is--did you sail from
Galveston, Texas, in the S.S. _Botopi_?"

"I did."  This is fairly safe ground, and Patrick feels very little
anxiety in replying to questions of this nature; he has already told
the same story in other ears, and is well up in all its details; they
won't catch him out here!

"And were these young ladies in your company?"

"They were."

"What relation are they to yourself?"

"One of them is my sister--or to be more correct, my half-sister; and
the other is my cousin."

"Had you been long in America before you came across in the _Botopi_?"

"We had been settled there for about three years."

"Then there is no truth whatever in the statement made to this court
by an officer now present, that you did not really come from America
at all?"

"No truth whatever.  I cannot imagine how such an idea can have
entered the mind of anyone.  I have letters on me to prove that I was
in Texas up to the time of the _Botopi's_ sailing, and can give you
as many references as you require, in America, testifying to my
living there for three years previously."

All of which is perfectly true.  Patrick has taken these obvious
precautions, and is well supplied with witnesses and testimony of all
kinds.

"And you say that your steamer was torpedoed and sunk in the early
morning of the day before yesterday by a German submarine?"

"She was that."

"Do you happen to have a passenger-list with you?"

"No.  I had one, as all the saloon passengers did, but we were
obliged to leave in such a divil of a hurry that I left all my papers
behind with the rest of my gear.  Everything is lost now, of course."

The court accepts without question this most natural explanation.
Dimsdale is alone in noting that it was a little inconsistent of the
man to have the forethought to bring along with him letters by which
he might be identified.

"But," remarks the president, "I must inform you that the _Botopi's_
agents in Galveston have been cabled, and have replied that your
names were not in the passenger-list."

"That, sir, is easily explained," Sheridan replies.  "We did not
decide to leave until the last minute, when all the berths were
taken.  Fortunately three of the intending passengers cancelled their
departure, and I was able to buy from them the berths which were
booked in their names."

"H'm!  And what were the names of these people, Mr. Sheridan?  Can
you remember?"

"Indeed, then, I can.  They were a maiden lady, a Miss Pearson, and
two brothers by the name of Newman."

"I suppose there is no means of verifying this statement, since you
do not happen to possess a passenger-list?"

The secretary comes to the rescue here.  "The Company have sent
another cable since the first one, sir," he informs the admiral,
"giving a complete list of the _Botopi's_ passengers."

"Good!  Have you got it here?"

"Yes, sir."

"And do you find any mention in it of these names which Mr. Sheridan
has quoted?"

The secretary runs rapidly through the list, consulting a cablegram
which he has picked from the pile of papers on the table before him.

"Miss Pearson--yes, that name's here; and--what did you say were the
other names, Mr. Sheridan?"

"Newman.  There were two of them, brothers, and they were to have
shared the same cabin, the cabin which the girls afterwards had."

"Mr. James Newman; Mr. Robert Newman," reads the secretary from his
list.  "Yes, they are both mentioned."

"Really, Admiral, if you will permit me to say one word," breaks in
once more the protesting voice of Mrs. Shaw.  "It seems very
ridiculous to go on with these absurd and unnecessary enquiries.  Mr.
Sheridan's explanation is obviously true, and you can go into the
matter of his proofs any time you wish.  And by that time, I hope,
these young people's nerves will have got a little stronger, and they
will have forgotten all their bad dreams."

"I am more than half inclined to think you are right, Mrs. Shaw."

"Of course I am right!  Am I ever anything else?"

"In this present instance at any rate I must admit I think you have
been right all along.  Of course, if it had not been for that very
important evidence about the _Marathon's_ defective ammunition, we
might have been obliged to admit our inability to assign a reasonable
cause for the disaster.  As for this other matter, I think we have
all of us come to the same conclusion.  I shall of course have to ask
you, Mr. Sheridan, for those proofs of your statements which you say
you possess or can procure, and I have little doubt that they will
prove satisfactory.  For the present, we can consider this enquiry
closed."

There is a sigh of relief throughout the room--and a most heartfelt
one from Patrick Sheridan.  And all of those present make their
preparations for leaving--when they are interrupted by the sharply
insistent voice of the secretary:

"One moment, sir, if you please!"




CHAPTER XXXV

All eyes are directed towards the secretary, and his attempt to
prolong the enquiry is greeted with no very good humour.  In fact, he
has made himself suddenly very unpopular with his "one moment, sir,
if you please"--which of course means a good many moments and a
corresponding postponement of lunch.

Nor is this general feeling the only ground of resentment against
him.  The poor man is once more made to feel the lash of Mrs. Shaw's
tongue.

"Oh, it is you again, Mr. Dimsdale?" she upbraids him--"are you not
tired yet of bullying these poor creatures?  It was your fault from
the start, I remember, that they were ever brought here.  A nice,
manly action, is it not, to subject two poor sick girls to such
treatment."

"I--I am very sorry, Mrs. Shaw, very sorry indeed," stammers the poor
man.  And indeed he speaks sincerely, since he has conceived
something more than a liking for one of these two girls, both of whom
he considers as victims rather than organisers of the diabolical
plot; for he is thoroughly convinced--he is the only member amongst
the whole court who is convinced--of the reality of the plot, and he
not only knows it to be his duty to expose it, but feels that this is
his only chance of so doing.

So he says, "I am very sorry, Mrs. Shaw.  But I do not wish to
question these ladies at all.  It is Mr. Sheridan to whom I would
like to address a few brief questions, with the permission of the
President."

"Go on then, Dimsdale," grudgingly assents the admiral; "but be as
quick as you can."

"I will, sir.  In fact, if Mr. Sheridan can satisfy me on the very
few points I wish to put to him, I shall not delay the court more
than a very few minutes."

The man thus referred to looks darkly at the secretary, and a shade
of perplexity creeps over his face.  He was beginning to feel quite
cheerful and almost to look so, at the happy turn which events were
taking for him.  But now the affair is apparently going to be
re-opened--and Sheridan does not like it at all!

What fresh questions are going to be put to him?  What details are
there that he has not already supplied?  _What new trap is now being
laid to ensnare him?_

Yes, that last doubt really accounts for the sudden spasm of fear
that clutches at his heart; there is a trap, he knows it, and it is
going to be one which will take him all his wits to avoid.

How he hates the smooth-faced secretary with the piercing eyes!  How
he hates him, and--fears him!

Really, this will not do--this cold dread is making him feel quite
unnerved; he must pull himself together, or else he will never be
able to reply convincingly, and his hopeless condition will become
evident to the whole court--almost sufficient of itself to condemn
him in their eyes!

In the midst of his bewilderment the secretary's first question
breaks in upon his ears through the buzzing, humming noise like the
sound of many waters which has quite unaccountably been filling them
these last few moments.

"Will you please tell me, Mr. Sheridan--what colour was the _Botopi_
painted?"

The blow has fallen!--oh, fool that he was, not to have thought of a
thing like this before!  How _could_ he have omitted to make certain
of such a simple detail?

There is only one thing to do--to hazard a guess and hope that it may
chance to be a lucky one.

Foolishly, he discounts his credibility by not answering boldly at
once.  Instead, he hesitates, and speaks only after a pause; this
would be almost enough to make him appear to be guessing, even if he
were really speaking from knowledge; but he is off his balance
altogether.

"Black," he replies.

"Are you quite certain?"

The question is evidently intended to nail him down to his statement;
but it suggests to him an opportunity for hedging a little.

"Yes," he replies, feeling his way as he speaks; "but it was an
indistinct sort of black--it might have appeared a kind of grey in
some lights; or even a very dark green."

"Thank you."

Dimsdale gives no indication whether he is satisfied with the reply
or not.  But at least it is something to the good that he does not
deny its correctness.  Perhaps it is correct, then!  Sheridan begins
to feel a little hope.

"And how many funnels had she?"

This second question comes without any comment on the former one.
Sheridan feels himself on firmer ground here.  Of all the passenger
ships he has ever seen, and he has seen a good many in his time, the
vast majority have had two funnels.  Cargo tramps, of course,
generally have one funnel only, and some of the gigantic liners have
three or four; but the _Botopi_ was neither cargo-tramp nor
first-class liner, and so he has much less hesitation than before in
making his reply:

"Two."

"Quite sure?" says the persuasive voice of the secretary--"are you
certain they didn't look as if they might be three, or even four, in
some lights?"

This man is mocking him!  With his smooth sarcastic tongue and his
calm emotionless face he is simply playing with him!

"There were two, I'm after tellin' ye," suddenly growls the baited
man.

"Thank you."  Again the quiet and unquestioning acceptance of his
reply.  This time, however, Sheridan does not feel quite so happy
about it; the absence of comment on Dimsdale's part has now become
ominous rather than assuring.

A tense silence settles upon the room; everyone from the President of
the court downwards looks expectantly towards the two men fencing
with question and answer; it is somewhat brought home quite clearly
to everyone that these two are fighting a duel to the death.

Netta looks on with grave anxiety and seems to have given away to
utter despair, as if she knows that the catastrophe hanging over them
cannot be warded off for long now.  As for Norah, more than once she
opens her lips to speak, and half rises from her chair; but Mrs. Shaw
checks her by a motion of the hand--as though she too feels that the
ring should be kept clear for the two antagonists.

Stapleton, who has sunk back apathetically in a seat on finding his
revelation of a conspiracy dismissed with scant attention, now finds
his interest fully re-awakened, and leans forward breathlessly so
that not a word shall escape him.

The atmosphere is electric.  Even the fleet surgeon who came with
Stapleton and has been trying for the last quarter of an hour to
induce his patient to return with him now desists from his
well-intentioned efforts and rivets his gaze on the two antagonists
as keenly as the rest.

Yet the secretary gives no indication of having any startling
surprise in store, or of being in any way dissatisfied with the
replies he has so far received.  Each question, as soon as it is
answered, he drops entirely and goes on to another subject.

For the third time he propounds one of his quite commonplace queries:

"During the voyage home, was the _Botopi_ stopped by any British
man-of-war?"

This is rather an awkward poser for Sheridan; yet he must make some
sort of reply.  It occurs to him that perhaps his interrogator is
merely bluffing and does not know the correct reply to his own
question.  In that case Sheridan need not care greatly what answer he
gives.  But suppose Dimsdale does know?  Well, then he must hazard a
Yes or No, and try to find some way of explaining his mistake if he
happens by ill-luck to hit upon the wrong answer.

It is pretty certain, the wretched man reflects, that the ship was
stopped.  The cordon has been drawn so closely that very few
Transatlantic vessels succeed in escaping the meshes of the net; and
every steamer that is sighted, Sheridan knows, is stopped for
examination.

So, after all, there is not such a very great risk about the reply.
He makes up his mind to chance it.

"Yes," he says, "we were held up by a warship and afterwards allowed
to proceed."

"How many days after you had left Galveston did this happen?"

What can the fellow be driving at?  Well, no matter, this question is
easier to evade than the previous one.

"I think it was either on the third or the fourth day out; but I am
not quite certain about it; it took place with so very little delay
and fuss that it made no very distinct impression upon my memory."

"Did this take place in the daytime or during the night?"

It will be much safer to say in the night; for then Sheridan will be
spared from describing things that happened during his sleep.

"It was in the night," he therefore makes answer.

Once more the secretary drops the subject but this time he does not
turn to a fresh one nor renew his questions.  Instead he bends over
his pile of documents, searching till he finds what he wants.
Turning them rapidly over he at length picks out a paper from the
heap, and spreads it on the table before him.

Then, turning to the President of the court he begins!

"Sir, it was not to be expected that Mr. Sheridan should be
acquainted with the conditions under which the tenth Cruiser Squadron
does its work, or else he might realise that now and then, very
rarely, it is true, a vessel does succeed in getting through the
patrol without being sighted.  Now, this report,"--holding one of his
papers up to view--"is one that was received by wireless on the very
morning when the _Botopi_ was sunk; it reads as follows:

"'_S.S. Botopi, Galveston to Hull, sailed on the eighth instant,
should be brought in for examination if met._'--which proves clearly
enough that the vessel was _not_ met by any of our patrols up to that
date.  Yet Mr. Sheridan, who says he was a passenger in the _Botopi_,
tells us that she was met and held up on the third or fourth day out,
and that this happened during the night; he is quite clear about
these facts."

"An' so we _were_ met an' stopped, as I'm tellin' ye," shouts
Sheridan, who sees that his only chance is to brazen it out; "'tis
all a big mistake somewhere--that report ye have in your hand, sir,
is not correct at all!"

"Possibly," says the Secretary drily.  "It may be, of course, that
the patrol ship which Mr. Sheridan declares to have met the _Botopi_
had some accident to her wireless and consequently was unable to
signal the report.  But let that go----"

"Indeed you may well say that!  An' let _me_ go too.  Can ye not take
the word of a gentleman but must throw doubts upon me statements?
'Tis time we put an end to this foolishness.  Come, Netta, and Norah,
too.  We'll not be staying any longer!"

"Not so fast, Mr. Sheridan, please," quietly insists the
secretary--"They say, sir," again addressing himself to the admiral,
"that even the most cunning criminals invariably overlook some
important details.  In this present case it would have been as well
for the success of the plot to have found out something about the
general appearance of the _Botopi_."

"What d'ye mean," breaks in Sheridan, trying to shout the other man
down now that he sees the trap closing; "I refuse to submit to this
dirty sneaking cross-questioning!  'Tis a plot to desthroy me.  Keep
you silent now, ye low scoundrel!"

The secretary pays not the slightest attention to this outburst, but
goes on in the same calm voice:

"The report I have just been quoting from, calling for the _Botopi_
to be brought in for examination, gives, as is the usual custom, a
description of the general appearance of the vessel.  And I may add,
that I have this morning cabled to the agents in order to make
certain that this description is correct.

"Mr. Sheridan has informed us that the steamer had two funnels also,
that her hull was painted black--though he qualifies this statement
to the extent of saying that she might possibly appear green or grey.
But the Company's own account of the vessel states that she is a
one-funnelled ship, and that she is painted in accordance with the
request of Germany _in broad bands of red and white_.

"Now, I think it must now become clear to this court how utterably
unreliable this man Sheridan's statements are; in fact, they are
nothing but a tissue of lies from beginning to end.  And it will be
presently seen that he was not shipwrecked--that there was a very
cunning and ingenious plot to blow up the _Marathon_--and that this
fellow is at the bottom of it all!"




CHAPTER XXXVI

Dimsdale brings his accusing words to a close in a silence that is
almost painful in its intensity.  All eyes are upon him.  He remains
calm and unperturbed as ever, and there is no flush of triumph in his
face but rather on the contrary a slight pallor, befitting one who
has accomplished a duty, to his own cost.

A gurgling throaty sound diverts the gaze of all from the secretary
to the fallen victim of this duel.

Sheridan is trying to speak, and is clutching at his throat as if
something is there that blocks the passage of his words.  His livid
face has changed to an angry blotchy purple, not pleasant to look
upon.

The game is up and he knows it.  Then the furious torrent of his
abuse finds utterance.

"Curse, ye, ye murdherin' lawyer," he shouts at Dimsdale, "may the
divil take ye!--I'll keep it up no longer--why should I?  Sure, 'tis
my glory and pride to call myself England's enemy!  I defy ye!  I'll
fight ye fair, and I'll tell ye all!"--he glares around the court
with such fierce blazing eyes that more than one man involuntarily
lowers his gaze before them--"No need for that sneaking hound to drag
the truth from me by inches--I'll not demean myself, talking to such
trash!  'Twill be my proudest boast that I did what I could, an' may
there be many to follow after me!  I did not sail from America, then.
'Twas from a little spot on the coast of Scotland that I put out, the
very same day the _Marathon_ left harbour, knowing well the way she
would pass, an' prayin' in me heart I might be the desthruction of
her--as I would be of ivery ship in the cursed English Navy if 'twas
in my power to be!  I hoped that I might fool thim on board of her
and bring them to their death!"

A gasp of horror at this devilish avowal escapes the admiral's lips.
But for this, not a sound nor a word is raised in interruption as
Sheridan goes on:

"An' we did fool ye, fine!  I could have laughed aloud at the lot of
ye, poor simpletons that ye were, ready to listen to the first
foolish tale that was poured into your long ears!  'Tis the English
all over--and ye think yourselves the cleverest nation on earth.
Pah, I deshpise the lot of ye."

"Then it was you that--Call in the guard, we must have him under
arrest," exclaims the President.

"Under arrest is it?  Dye think I hadn't made provision for the
chance of that same?  Bad luck to me that I failed to blow up the
ship!  Though as things turned out----"

"_He failed!  Listen to him--do you hear what he says?  He failed to
blow up the ship!_"--It is Stapleton who cries aloud like an inspired
prophet to whom has been revealed a life-giving message; and the
glory of this enlightenment transfigures his face with a wonderful
radiance.

He staggers across the room even as he speaks, and stands at Norah's
side.  He would show her, it seems, that his love is not dead, and
would have her to understand how utterly glad he is that his hateful
duty has been accomplished without bringing the dreaded results upon
her head.

But she sees nothing of her lover's pleading looks and gestures.  She
has hidden her face, and is cowering down before the stinging fury of
Patrick's invective.  Well she knew that her cousin would not spare
her.

"As for you, you traitress," he snarles at her, "black shame to you
for preventing me!  To hell with you for a perjured girl that has
brought disgrace upon her country and dishonoured her mother's grave!
Ah, then, don't think ye'll escape for your treachery--you and your
fine lover for whose sake ye've sold yourself.  I say, to hell with
ye--to hell with ye all!  _The Saints above be praised, I've still
got the bomb!_"

Before anyone can realise what the man is doing, much less make any
attempt to prevent him, he plunges his hand beneath his coat and
draws from its hiding place there something which he holds closely to
his eyes and fumbles with hastily.

What this object may be is not clearly discernible; it is hidden by
Sheridan's hands except for a momentary gleam of white metal.

But Norah knows and so does Netta.  Both the girls spring to their
feet and raise their voices simultaneously in a warning cry.

Too late!  Patrick has succeeded in securing the moments necessary
for adjusting the bomb for instantaneous explosion, and with a
mocking laugh of triumph he flings it to the ground in the midst of
the court.

There is a shriek from Netta--the first start of a movement on the
part of everyone to make a rush for the doors; as if there could be
time to save themselves--and the crashing noise of the metal bomb
falling on the wooden floor.

And no other sound follows.  The bomb has failed to explode!

Already most of those present are crowding at the doorways.  Sheridan
stands with folded arms, smiling contemptuously; he knows that it is
only an affair of an instant, and that before anyone can force a way
from the room the whole building will be wrecked to atoms.

Mrs. Shaw, brave woman, has not joined in the general stampede.  She
is seizing the two girls and endeavouring to pull them down to the
ground as the safest place where little safety of any sort is to be
found.

But Norah tears herself away.

Ah, what is the rash girl about to do?

Stapleton sees, and leaps after her to prevent her; but he is not in
time, she is too quick for him.

She dashes across the floor of the room to where the bomb lies in the
midst.  It is but a second since it has left Sheridan's hands.  He
too, starts forward to stop her, but she evades him.

She has picked up the bomb and is holding it tightly in her hand.  No
time to alter the adjustment now--there is only one thing to be done,
and she does it.

She takes a few quick running strides towards one of the windows, and
hurling the bomb with all her strength sends it crashing through the
glass.

It scarcely touches the ground outside before it explodes with a
deafening roar.  The whole building rocks, and the windows of the
room are blown inwards, the clatter of broken glass and splintered
framework adding to the noise and confusion.

Stapleton has reached Norah's side a moment after the bomb leaves her
hand, and is bending over her to shelter her with his body as the
building sways with the concussion.

A moment, and the danger is seen to be over.  The force of the
explosion has spent itself in the open air, and save for a few
falling stones and loosened plaster, broken windows and unhinged
doors, the house is unscathed, and so are all within it.

Still holding Norah in his arms, Stapleton whispers incoherent words
of love and admiration for her deed.  He scarcely knows what he is
saying; but he knows that he will never let her go away from him
again.

And, indeed, she pays but little heed to her lover's words.  Gently
disengaging herself from his arms she turns from him and moves
towards the admiral, who is one of the few who have not attempted to
escape from the room; both he and Dimsdale have kept their places
calmly through it all.

Norah is standing before the admiral and looking up appealingly into
his kindly face.  She comes to him as a suppliant; but as a suppliant
who claims rather than begs for mercy.

"It was quite true," she says in a low voice, but so clearly that
everyone can hear what she is saying, "there was a bomb--but you have
seen what has become of it!  That bomb was never used for the wicked
purpose it was intended for; whatever it was that sank the
_Marathon_, it was no deed of ours."

"Bad cordite, right enough; no doubt about that now!" interrupts
Dimsdale, speaking quite cheerfully as if it were something he is
greatly pleased about.

"And I saved you, I saved the lives of all of you," continues Norah's
pleading voice.  "That makes some difference, doesn't it?  Will that
atone for what I have done?"

The admiral hardly knows how to answer her in words, though his
moistening eyes show what he thinks of the brave girl who has risked
her own life to make amends for the past.

It will not be a difficult matter to deal leniently with these girls
who have been misled and have now striven their hardest to make
amends.  Indeed, there is not much that can be said to their charge
even in intention.

With Patrick Sheridan, however, the ease stands very differently.
Not only has he deliberately made the attempt to destroy one of His
Majesty's ships, an attempt thwarted by those who were to have been
his accomplices, but now there is this other murderous outrage of
attempted wholesale slaughter.  But where is Sheridan?  He is not to
be seen.  Has he succeeded in escaping in the general confusion?

What is that little group of officers over there in the corner of the
room as if with the purpose of hiding something from view?

From the group emerges the fleet surgeon, Stapleton's fleet surgeon,
and coming up to the admiral whispers to him to get the ladies out of
the room as quickly as he can.

No charge will ever be laid against Patrick Sheridan.  The justice of
Fate has found him out, fulfilling that ancient doom pronounced upon
the doers of evil; "_they have digged a pit for others and are fallen
into the midst of it themselves._"

Just a tiny fragment of the steel bomb has winged its way in a flight
so direct that surely the hand of Destiny must have guided it, and it
lies buried in the brain of the man who devised both the infernal
instrument itself and its still more infernal purpose.

Norah divines the meaning of the fleet surgeon's whisper; she has
guessed what it is that lies concealed by that hedge of men.

"No need, sir, to hide it from me," she says, undaunted even by this
dread blow, "I know what it is!  Whatever else Patrick was, he was no
coward; he was willing to die with the rest of us for what he thought
right.  Let me go to him.  He was a brave man."

"And you are brave, too," says the admiral, "it is you who have saved
all our lives!"

"At the risk of your own, Norah, my beloved," adds Stapleton.

"What did that matter?" exclaims the girl, locking her hand into that
of her lover.  "That was a very little thing!  What value is my life?"

"It is everything in the world to me," Stapleton answers her.



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