The Project Gutenberg eBook of In Peril on the Sea, by Montague T. Hainsselin

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.

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.

CHAPTER I

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.

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.

"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?"

"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——"

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 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!"

"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!"

"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:

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!'"

"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?"

"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?"

"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."

"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."

"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!"

"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!"

"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:

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

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:

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

"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?"

"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:

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!"

"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!"

"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?"

"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?"

"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!"

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

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.

"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.

"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."

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!

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:

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!"

"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.

"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!"

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.

"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."

"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.

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

"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——"

"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."

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

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—

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.

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.

"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!"

"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.

"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."

"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:

"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!

"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!"

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.

"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."

"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. 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.

"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.

"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.

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!"

"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."

"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.

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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!"

"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.

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 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!"

"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

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:

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.

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."

"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?"

"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.

"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.'"

"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."

"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

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.

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

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.

"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?

"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!"

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:

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.

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.

"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.

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

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?"

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

"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."

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

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?"

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

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:

"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."

"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!"

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

"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!"

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!"

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?"

"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.

"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."

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."

"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."

"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."

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."

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.

"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."

CHAPTER XXI

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."

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."

"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."

"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."

"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.

"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.

"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——"

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

"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, 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.

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!"

"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.

"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:

"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:

"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.

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.

"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."

"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!"

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.

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

"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?"

"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?"

"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!"

"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.

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!"

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.

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?"

"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.

"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.

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."

"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.

"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.

(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

"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."

"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!"

"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."

"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?"

"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?"

"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.

"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?"

"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!"

"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.

"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."

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?"

"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.

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?"

"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."

"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?"

"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.

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."

"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."

"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.

Netta averts her eyes in horror from the sight of the unexpected intruder, and burying her face in Mrs. Shaw's bosom, cries out:

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!

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.

"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.

"Yes. She herself made a confession to me." The accusing hand is again lifted towards Norah.

"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,

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?"

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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.

"Why do you torture me?" cries the unhappy lover, goaded beyond endurance, "can't you see that you are making me——"

"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?"

"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?"

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.

"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!

"One of them is my sister—or to be more correct, my half-sister; and the other is my cousin."

"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?"

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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:

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.

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.

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."

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.

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:

"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!

"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.

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."

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."

It will be much safer to say in the night; for then Sheridan will be spared from describing things that happened during his sleep.

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.

"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.

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.

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!"

"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?"

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