In peril on the sea

CHAPTER XXI

"No, Norah dear, I would rather see him alone, thank you."

"But won't you tell me what your plan is?"

This, also, Netta refuses. For the very good reason that she has no plan; that is, nothing definite. Only she has a vague idea that their sole hope—and a very faint hope, too—lies in Dick Baynes. He may not be able to suggest any means of help; but if he cannot, there is no one else who can.

The stalwart young seaman, on entering the room, finds Netta Sheridan looking a very picture.

He does not know—how should he—that she has taken a good deal of pains to produce this effect. All the electric lights except one have been turned out, and this one is selected to cast a soft light on the girl as she reclines gracefully on a couch, leaving the rest of the room in shadow.

So Baynes, when he comes in, has his eyes directed at once towards a very attractive tableau vivant. There are soft glints of light reflected in the girl's ashen-gold hair, and a pair of pleading grey eyes shine on him very effectively.

"You've sent for me, miss?"—the man speaks in an awed hushed voice, like a devotee before his idol in a temple.

"Yes, Baynes—Dick. I thought that I should like to see you again and talk to you."

She had never called him "Dick" before, not in all those happy days in Glasgow!

Is it a matter for wonder that after a few more doses of this diplomatic kind, Baynes is easily reduced to the state of mind which Netta desires?

But the girl has no intention of wasting time; idle dalliance is a thing she has no use for, except so far as it can serve her purpose; and to her purpose she presently comes.

"Now I want your advice and help, Dick, in a very difficult situation," she tells him. "It was partly for this reason that I asked you to come."

"Yes, miss? If there is anything I can do, you can depend on me to do it. Tell me what it is."

"Well, it's just this." Having come to the point, Netta finds some difficulty in expressing herself. There is such a very little that will bear telling. Baynes must not know a single word about the conspiracy to blow up the Marathon. It is sincerely to be hoped that he has not yet heard the news that the ship is lost; but even if he has heard this, he must be kept from all suspicion of any connection between that disaster and the presence of the Sheridans' party at the base.

"It's just this," she repeats. "I can't tell you everything, you know, because it's such a delicate matter. If I keep anything from you, it is because I think I ought not to tell it, and you must just trust me. Can you trust me?"

"You know I can, miss," thrills the deep-toned reply. "I would trust you with my life!"

The dark sweeping eyelashes are raised to let a languorous look of gratitude escape from the grey eyes and in an instant are lowered again.

"It is about Norah. She is in very great danger. She has met someone here this afternoon, an officer, who has somehow managed to discover a secret of her past life which she would give anything to keep from him."

"Yes, miss? Well, I am sure it can't be anything shameful, whatever it is. Does it matter so very much?"

"It matters very much, indeed; it is almost a matter of life and death. And the dreadful part of it is that he is sure to go and tell the admiral at the earliest possible opportunity."

"He ought to be stopped, miss."

"Yes, of course he ought. But"—with a smile of engaging frankness—"are you quite sure you ought to be listening to me? Don't you think we may be spies, all three of us?"

An indignant protest is his answer to this, and more protestations of the most complete trust.

"If any means could be found of preventing this Mr. Stapleton—that is the officer's name—from telling the admiral what he has found out about Norah, she would never cease to be grateful to you."

Dick Baynes does not appear greatly impressed. Netta remarks this fact.

"And I should be more than grateful, too," she adds.

"Would you?" A very different look comes over the man's face.

"Yes, of course I should. But can you suggest any means of stopping his mouth?"

"Only one, miss," Baynes replies, revolving the matter slowly in his simple mind. "I'm a pretty strong chap, you know; I might have to hurt him a little—nothing to speak of, you know, only just enough to lay him up for a few days, till you can get away back to Glasgow."

Netta is horrified at the idea.

"How dare you suggest such a thing?" she cries, flushing with indignation. "What! Do you think that I should allow you to—to play the part of the hired assassin——"

"I didn't say kill him, miss; I only meant that I would put him out of action, so to speak, for a little while," murmurs the man apologetically.

"Well, to act the bully and ruffian, then. It is much the same thing. I am disappointed in you, Mr. Baynes. I did think that a man of your intelligence and cleverness might be able to find some means of helping me out of a difficulty. But never mind! I dare say I have alarmed myself needlessly—the troubles one frets and worries over often vanish when the time comes, don't they? And if not—well, it's only two girls that will have to suffer. Thank you all the same."

This is quite unendurable. Baynes becomes on the instant a limp and crushed mass of denials, protests, and eager avowals that he will do anything his idol desires of him and nothing she objects to; that her wishes are all and all to him, and that she must pardon him for even imagining she meant him to use brute force—of course such an idea was far below her—and so on and so forth. To put it shortly, he is brought to just such a state of mind as Netta intended him to be.

She rewards and pacifies him with a smile, and graciously takes him into favour again.

No question about it, a censorious world would pronounce the opinion that Netta was not quite nice, judging from the part she is playing at present; but it must be remembered in her defence that she is fighting for one who is very dear to her, her wilful, headstrong cousin Norah, who is too brave and fearless to do anything for her own safety.

"I promise you, miss, that I will think of something that will put matters right for you and Miss Norah. Only you took me rather sudden like; when I turn it over in my mind a bit I shall find some way to manage it, never fear!" With such words Baynes endeavours to reinstate himself in Netta's good graces.

"But you must do it at once; there is no time to waste," she urges him.

"Certainly, miss, that's right. I quite see that." But his actions did not bear out his words, for he makes no motion to go away, but on the contrary draws rather nearer to the anxious girl.

"Then why don't you go?" she asks bluntly. Having gained her purpose, Netta is unable to see any reason why the interview should be prolonged.

Dick Baynes, however, does not see matters in quite the same light.

"Because I want to know what my reward is to be if I do this for you," he answers.

Netta's pretty mouth curls contemptuously. "What?" she taunts him. "You want payment? I thought you would help me out of friendship!"

"For friendship? No—but for love!" he cries in a voice vibrating with passion. "That is all the payment I require, and that you must and shall give me!"

With a rapid stride he comes to her and kneels beside her couch, taking her into his arms. She neither repels him nor accepts his rough caresses, but remains listless, cold and indifferent.

To tell the truth, she is just a little bit frightened—frightened, and still more annoyed. She did not expect this development, and is not at all pleased with it.

Women are like this occasionally; they play with fire, and are quite shocked to make the discovery that fire burns.

It is very pretty and feminine and all that sort of thing to adopt a seductive manner, but the lady who does so ought not to be altogether unprepared to find herself successful as a seductress.

Netta has been willing to make use of her handsome sailor as a convenient machine; it comes upon her like a cold douche to find that he is a man!

And a real live warm-blooded man, strong and forceful in his desires and most insistent in his manner of expressing them.

He has cast all diffidence to the winds now. Forgetting his present position and the difference in their respective stations, forgetting everything else, he only remembers that she is a woman and that he loves her.

"I am hungry for you, Netta," he cries, his simple, homely speech setting forth his appeal far dearer than any finer phrases could do—"hungry for you, and 'tis none but you can still the aching in my heart! 'Tis you alone I want, and I have wanted you since first I saw you. Give me yourself and I am yours to do what you will with!"

His strong arms press the girl close to his heart and he rains passionate kisses upon her face.

With an effort Netta succeeds in releasing herself, pushing him gently away; not angrily, with the hot indignation of an outraged maiden, nor yet coquettishly as one who would by a feigned repulse encourage further advances; simply, she does not greatly care. This unforeseen turn of events strikes her as rather a nuisance, that is all; it introduces an element that may interfere with her plans. Yet, on the other hand, it may have its uses; so it is as well to take up a non-committal attitude.

"Is this quite honourable?" she asks coldly, "to take advantage of my distress and to make a bargain with me for my love?"

"Honourable or not," comes his ready answer, "it is the only chance I have with you, and I am going to take it. I know well that you would never listen to me if it were not for this, and you must not blame a desperate man if he makes use of the power that chance puts into his hands. I want you, and I am going to have you for my own!"

Netta looks closely at him. The man is so terribly in earnest. His fine, handsome face is lighted up with the kindling fires of his love, and in his eyes tenderness and eagerness are clashing in conflict. No doubt he is a fine figure of a man, and if a girl should fall in love for good looks alone, she need not go further than this very impetuous and ardent sailor.

She gives a tiny sigh, so small that it escapes her lover's notice. But that sigh means a great deal. It means, "If I had no other matters to think about, and if I felt myself capable of loving any one and if this man were not what he is, and if——"

A greater "if" than all these still confronts her; if she does not consent to his bargain, then she cannot hope that he will make the effort to save Norah. This has to be faced at once, and there is only one way of facing it.

"Tell me, girl, tell me," urges her seaman lover again, seizing both her hands and forcing her eyes to meet his own, "do you agree? If I help you, will you give me your promise to be mine? I will trust you. I know you will keep your word. Otherwise——"

He does not finish his sentence.

"I suppose so," Netta's consent, given in a low whisper, is not very encouraging, but Baynes appears to be content with it.

"Then seal the bargain with me," he cries. Netta coldly turns her cheek towards him, as a girl might do for the chaste salute of an aged priest or a maiden aunt.

"No," exclaims the sailor, "that will not do for me. If you are going to give me yourself, you must give me an earnest of it now."

There is no doubt as to his meaning; indeed, he helps her to understand, by placing both his big, strong hands upon that mass of pale gold hair coiled on her head, and drawing her lips to his own eager ones.

It seems an eternity before he releases her. An eternity which gradually blackens into an eternity of shame. She would struggle and escape from it, but she is held as though in a vice.

When her seared lips are at last set free, she falls back upon the couch, her cheeks burning red and her eyes ready to burst into tears.

"Now go!" she says briefly, and in such a tone that Baynes is wise enough to obey at once without another word.

And when the door closes behind him, then the bitter tears fall indeed, as Netta realises what a price she has paid and still must pay for the bargain she has made.

CHAPTER XXII

And yet Dick Baynes, in concluding his side of the bargain, has but gambled with fate quite blindly. To gain the love of this woman of his desires he will agree to anything—has agreed, in fact. But how is he to fulfil his part of the contract?

That is a question he is scarcely able to answer. And as he gets out into the cold open air and his passionate humour cools down a little, he begins to realise with much mortification how big a job it is that he has let himself in for, a much bigger job, indeed, than he feels himself able to tackle.

There is an officer to be traced, concerning whom he knows little more than his name and appearance—not even what ship he belongs to or where he is to be found.

And this officer has to be persuaded not to give to the admiral certain information which he is probably fully determined to give.

Truly, it is a big problem for an able seaman who is tied by his duty to the island!

To make the problem harder still, it must be solved at once. If there is any delay, nothing will be of any use.

Baynes is reminded of the fairy stories he used to read when a child, in which a poor lad was given such tasks as that of emptying a lake during the night with a teaspoon full of holes. This present task, when looked at in the cold light of reason, appears just as impossible.

Moreover, in these childish stories there was always a good fairy in disguise who came to the rescue of the poor lad and helped him to perform the impossible task to perfection; but there is precious little chance of a good fairy turning up at the opportune moment to assist Dick Baynes.

So this unhappy wretch, bound by a promise which he is quite unable to fulfil, and tantalised by hopes of a reward which he can never earn, walks away from the hut into the darkness of the night and wanders aimlessly about the island, a prey to his most distracting thoughts.

He knows not whither he goes, but simply lets his torturing fancies lead him whither they will.

Netta of the grey eyes and ashen-gold hair, Netta of the soft alluring voice and winsome ways, the girl who fills every thought of his days and every dream of his nights—Netta he must have for his very own; and Netta he knows he can never have, since the rash pledge he has made to her is one which he has not the slightest chance of redeeming; and to that pledge she will hold him, or deny herself.

Brooding darkly over this maze of circumstances from which there is no possible escape, Baynes comes to the edge of the cliff near to where the pathway runs down to the landing-place.

It is still night, and the sea is quite calm. The rising moon is beginning to light up with silver the unruffled surface of the water.

A sound falls on Dick's ears as he stands there, in his perplexity and looks idly out over the waters, a regular rhythmic sound of oars jarring against rowlocks and of the slight splash made by the blades dipping into the water at each stroke.

The sound comes nearer, though as yet the boat is not in sight. It is not very loud, either; evidently it comes from quite a small boat, a skiff probably, or perhaps a whaler; certainly not a cutter—there is not noise enough for that.

Then a dim light twinkles, low down on the surface of the sea. It glows brighter each moment, and is presently seen to be a boat's lantern in the bows of a skiff manned by a single rower.

Baynes still remains watching, out of idle curiosity; in fact, he is so much wrapped up in his own concerns that he can scarcely be said to watch at all. His eyes see, but his mind takes in little or nothing.

The solitary oarsman makes his boat fast by the side of the little pier that runs out at the foot of the cliffs, comes ashore, and, taking the boat's lantern in his hand, walks rapidly up the hill.

From his lower position he has no difficulty in seeing the motionless figure of Dick Baynes standing silhouetted against the skyline. He gives him a hail on reaching the top of the path, and makes straight towards him.

He raises his lantern as he approaches so as to see the man he is about to speak to, and at once puts the question to him:

"Have you seen the admiral anywhere, my man? Do you know if he has left the island yet?"

The lantern which is held up to give the speaker a view of Dick Baynes' face also lights up his own. And in the light of that lantern Baynes sees a sight which sets his brain in a whirl.

He is face to face with Lieutenant-Commander Stapleton.

No miracle has happened to bring about this strange meeting, so much desired by one of the two men at least yet so utterly unhoped for and improbable. It simply happens as the natural result of a most ordinary chain of circumstances.

This is the way of it. Stapleton, on leaving the island, has taken his steamboat straight to the spot where stands, on another islet, the group of official buildings amongst which is the house used as the headquarters of the admiral in charge of the base.

He makes inquiries for the admiral, feeling that the news he has to impart is of such importance that it can be told to no one else. It is not usual, no doubt, for a mere lieutenant-commander to deal directly with an officer of flag rank in matters affecting purely naval and not merely personal affairs; but this is a matter of such consequence that Stapleton feels no hesitation in breaking through the ordinary routine; moreover, there is no time to be lost—the court of enquiry is due to be held to-morrow morning.

Greatly to his annoyance, he is told that the admiral has not yet returned to his house. The secretary, however, is back, and would Mr. Stapleton like to see him instead?

Mr. Stapleton would. So Dimsdale appears, but is not able to throw very much light upon the admiral's movements; he was ashore tins afternoon, but his barge was sent for him an hour ago. As the barge has not yet returned, it is probable the admiral is still on the island where he has been taking a walk; on the other hand, he may have left the island and gone to some other ship; he does this sometimes, in fact there is no knowing what he may do; he is in the habit of setting aside this part of the day for recreation, and does not settle down to official work again till after dinner, or, as a third alternative, the barge may have gone round to the other side of the island to wait for the admiral.

Does Stapleton want to see the admiral urgently?

Stapleton does. Very urgently indeed.

Then, says Dimsdale, it is difficult to know what course to recommend. The admiral is dining afloat to-night, and has a meeting to attend to afterwards which will keep him till close on midnight.

Stapleton comes away fuming with impatience. He has already kept his steamboat longer than he ought to have done, and must get back at once to the ship where he is being accommodated for the time being.

Arriving there, he is perhaps fortunate in finding the officer-of-the-watch a man very much junior to himself, and so escapes the cursing which he deserves for being so inconsiderate as to keep the one steamboat such a long time; and although he makes suitable apologies for his unwarranted behaviour, he feels that the young sub-lieutenant at the head of the gangway regards him with malevolent disfavour. And as if to drive home the extent of his shortcomings, the steamboat's crew are ordered to shove off at once and do the next trip, which they ought to have done an hour ago.

Stapleton smiles ruefully, remembering well the similar worries of his own watch-keeping days. He has not the heart to ask for anything more than a skiff, though he feels that he can do no less than make his way back to the island and seek the admiral there.

And meanwhile, blissfully unconscious of being so much in request, the admiral has sent a message back to his barge with orders to go round and wait for him at the southern side of the island, as Dimsdale has suggested he may have done; and, after saying good night to Norah and Netta in the hut, has walked across the island in the gathering twilight and thence gone afloat and taken the long sea-route home. This explains why Stapleton on coming down to the landing-place found no other boat except his own waiting there, and so concluded that the admiral must have returned to his house.

The request for the skiff is readily granted, though the sub-lieutenant on watch thinks to himself that this guest with the two-and-a-half stripes on his arm is a regular whale for boat trips. However, Stapleton propitiates him by stating that he will not require any hands to man the skiff, but will go alone and use the sculls. It is better so, on the whole, he reflects. Secrecy is very desirable on such a mission as his, and even the anxiety which is bound to be shown in his face may give too much away. Better be alone.

So, pulling the skiff by himself across the placid waters to the distant island, he makes for the pier at the landing-place and there makes fast his boat.

Stepping ashore, he is still at a loss as to what course to pursue in his search; perhaps it will be best to go first to the hut and there to make enquiries; after that, if no news is obtainable there, the only thing left to do will be to walk across the island to the other landing place and see if the admiral's barge is still there or not.

Ha! There is a man standing at the top of the cliff. This will be some one to enquire of, at any rate; and no chance must be overlooked.

So Stapleton walks up to the man and raises his lantern.

And he recognises, as he puts his question, the man whose fatal interruption this very afternoon, has parted him and Norah for ever and set afoot all this fearful trouble.

CHAPTER XXIII

Dick Baynes is a man of strong passions but few ideas. His friends sometimes described him as a man whose heart was stronger than his head, and he did not resent the description but rather gloried in it. After all, ideas can be bought for base coin, but the finer feelings are a man's own inheritance, and can neither be purchased nor bartered away. And Baynes was intelligent enough to deal with all the matters of his ordinary life and routine—and what can a man want more than that?

It was in the extraordinary affairs of life that he was apt to fail; or rather, not to fail so much as to be just a little bit slow in adapting himself to the problems of the moment.

It is certainly a very unusual problem which he is now suddenly called upon to solve.

The kind fairy of the story-books has not indeed taken the whole of his difficult task put of his hands and completed it for him; perhaps her power has weakened somewhat in the many centuries that have elapsed since the golden age; but it cannot be denied that she has worked to the best of her ability, or at least as much as could be expected of her, in bringing Lieutenant-Commander Stapleton face to face with Baynes in this most unexpected fashion.

Now it is up to Baynes to solve the remaining part of the problem for himself.

Unfortunately, his brain is only able to light upon one solution—the one which he has already suggested to Netta, thereby rousing her to a horror-stricken remonstrance.

Well, he quieted her then by a promise, easily made and as easily accepted; but is such a promise to hold good?

If he breaks it, need she ever know? Or if she does get to know, will she mind so very much when the deed is done if she sees that her purpose is thereby effected?

Besides, what alternative is there? Of course, Baynes does not mean to do any lasting bodily harm. He knows his great strength, and is confident that he can use it to a nicety, as he has so often done in the boxing ring; he can deal a man a blow that would slay a bullock, or on the other hand he can give a novice just such a gentle tap as to make him believe that he is really putting up a serious fight; for Baynes is a good sportsman.

Yes, but this is not a very sporting proposition that he is in for now!

Well, it cannot be helped. This officer's lips have to be closed for the next two or three days, and there is only this one way for Baynes to do the job; otherwise—Netta will never be his.

To do the job! An ugly sound in the expression! And an ugly business it is, altogether.

Baynes dislikes it more and more, as he stands facing the other man and deciding rapidly on what has to be done.

"Can't you speak, my man? What is the matter with you—why don't you answer my question?" Baynes has been silent in his own unpleasant reflections, and Stapleton may perhaps be excused for a little impatience and irritation.

The words snapped out in his face bring a bright idea to the sailor's mind—the one sole idea he has been able to light upon in all his difficulties. And it is not such a bad idea either; rather a good one, in fact.

Can't you speak? What is the matter with you? Well, the matter shall be, thinks Baynes, that I am drunk. That is why I cannot answer his question, and that will help to explain why I am in a fighting mood.

It is much to Baynes' credit that he does not even for a moment think that this may also help later to lighten the punishment that is bound to come to him. He is too good a fellow, too much of a sportsman, to entertain such an idea. Having determined in his course of action he means to see it through and does not waste a moment in thinking about the consequences to himself.

And mind you, he regrets very much the necessity that is laid upon him. He does not want in the least to harm this officer, he has not the slightest personal grudge against him. But, there it is; it is a necessity, or his passion has made it so.

He begins therefore to act his part, and lurches heavily against the man facing him; who steps aside, so that the seaman feigns to stumble and almost falls.

"Pull yourself together, you fool," Stapleton not unkindly bids him. "You're all right, if you'll make up your mind to it. I want to ask you an important question, so buck up and listen to me!"

"Don' wan' any queshuns," burbles the drunken man, "an' don' wan' any lip from you! So look out for y'shelf!" and with the words he aims a blow at the other's face.

Stapleton steps aside just in time to avoid the clumsy blow, and again speaks to the man, a good deal more sharply this time.

It is to no purpose that he speaks. The man comes for him again; he is evidently fighting drunk. And once more Stapleton has to move pretty smartly to avoid a swinging blow.

Now, his only course is to leave the man and retire. There is nothing to be got out of him in this state. It is a cursed nuisance, but it is only one more annoyance in a series of unhappy occurrences.

All very well—but the man will not let him retreat so easily. The intoxicated sailor comes after him and evidently means business.

This must be stopped. Stapleton dislikes the idea of striking one in an inferior position, and still more the idea of striking a man in liquor. But it has to be done, or there will be more trouble. So he turns and faces his pursuer, and stands to await the next onset.

Nor has he long to wait; and when the lumbering seaman reaches for him he anticipates events by cleverly getting in a short punch with his left.

But, to his great surprise, the blow fails to get home; it is met with all the skill of an old hand in the tactics of the ring, and a moment later Stapleton has to make use of all his wits to guard himself. And the thought flashes across his mind that this sailor fights uncommonly cleverly for a drunken man!

So he begins to take the affair more seriously, and puts a little more effort into his attempt to give the other fellow just enough to make him see reason and let him alone.

Yet, as he goes on, he begins to realise more and more that he has rather to act on the defensive than otherwise. The affair is developing into a bigger thing than he thought—and how the deuce is it going to end?

But Baynes also is not free from a big surprise. He has not reckoned with the chance of being up against another boxing man, and he finds himself now fighting a man whose strength and skill in ringcraft are undoubtedly almost equal to his own!

The strange fight goes on in a weird silence, beneath the light of the moon; sometimes, indeed, they actually have to stop while the darkness of an overshadowing cloud makes it impossible to do more than dimly descry the vague outlines of each other's form. The blood of both is up, and there is no question now of the one trying to avoid the other. Instead, they make use of these short spells of semi-darkness while the swift clouds fly across the moon as intervals between rounds, by mutual unspoken consent.

Now, on the moonlight reappearing, they are at it again, fighting warily, and with all the skill they can command. There is no sound but that of their quick and labouring breath, and now and then of a smothered grunt as a blow gets home.

Both of them are getting badly punished. It is impossible, in such a light, to ward off many a blow that could easily have been avoided had it not been for this.

CHAPTER XXIV

Although he is faced with no mean antagonist, Baynes, without question, is slightly the better man of the two with his fists, as he is also the more powerful and has the longer reach. And there is very little doubt that if the conditions of the fight were those of an ordinary contest the seaman would come off the victor, even though he might have to last several rounds before finally deciding the matter.

As it is, however, the fickle chances of a fight in semi-darkness tend rather to equalise matters between the two. In fact, fortune comes to the aid of the weaker man, and, aided by a cloud suddenly blotting out the light of the moon, Stapleton gets in a blow which the other fails to ward off. The blow falls true on the mark, and Baynes goes reeling and stumbling to his knees.

Now is Stapleton's chance to break away and get clear of this drunken, fighting fool; but no—he is far too much exhausted himself to do more than stand, with his arms hanging limp at his sides and his head bowed forward, heaving deep breaths in the effort to get his wind.

Baynes is the first to recover. He sees that he must make an end of the affair. It is not proving so easy as he thought it would be to manhandle his antagonist to such an extent as to place him completely out of action for a few days. He has no mind to prolong a mere blindfold boxing contest such as this is becoming and, what is more, his blood is now thoroughly roused, and the cautious scheming of his original plan has given place to the fierce fighting lust of the primitive man battling with his fellow savage.

Yes, he must make an end of it—and the conventions of fair play and the rules of the game can go hang; the great thing is to finish the other man off—by any and all means possible.

With this intent, Baynes springs to his feet again and makes for his man. Stapleton stops his rush with a simultaneous right and left—or thinks to stop it. But the primitive savage now raised in the big seaman takes little heed of these punishing body blows. On he comes still and closes with his opponent, with one thought alone in his mind—to get him beaten.

Stapleton feels himself locked in a pair of arms like steel cables; his legs are pinned—this is wrestling now, and foul wrestling at that!—and his body is being gradually forced back; he is taken unprepared. He strains against the pressing weight of the heavier man; but strain as he may, he finds himself still being forced backwards, and feels that unless he can do something, and that quickly, in another minute his back will be broken.

But it is not for nothing that Stapleton himself has done some pretty good wrestling in his time. There are not many tricks of the game which he has not learnt and practised.

He knows that the other man will be obliged to take breath in a second or two, and that then will be his opportunity.

The moment comes, and with it a slight relaxing of the pressure. Then, as well he knows how, Stapleton cleverly slips downwards from the circling arms and gets half free.

In a second the two are closed again, but this time neither can be said to have all the advantage on his side, it is more equal.

They sway to and fro, and shift their feet rapidly, manœuvring to get a good hold.

And neither of them takes notice of the fact that in their struggles they are getting dangerously near the edge of the cliff.

Near it? Good God, they are over! Still heaving and struggling, locked in each other's arms, they come unseeing to the top of the precipitous bank overhanging the rocks on the foreshore. The soft earth breaks away beneath their feet, and in the dark they cannot see to save themselves—indeed, it would be too late in any case, so little is either inclined to relax his deadly grip of the other.

So the fight comes suddenly to an end—a tragic end.

Tragic enough at least for one of them. The heavier man falls underneath, and is dead as soon as he strikes the rocks below. Dick Baynes, who an instant before was a fine, powerful creature of mighty muscles and quick stirring blood, a man full of life, able to love like a man and fight like a man—is now a lifeless lump of dehumanised clay, broken and bruised beyond recognition.

This is what Netta, that delicate, fair, feminine thing, has won by her scheming. True, she meant well: her only object was to save her cousin from a threatened danger and she had no thought the result of her own actions would ever be anything like this—but what sadder epitaph can be written over the grave of one's dead actions than these very words: "He meant well; he never thought!"

Yet Netta must not be blamed too harshly; in truth, the mischief can be traced to a source much farther back than her own unthinking attempt at intrigue; it goes back to the evil brains of those who first planned the vile plot against the Marathon. The death of honest Dick Baynes is but a later fruit of that noxious growth; and the strong poison of that evil weed is not even yet exhausted.

* * * * *

The young sub-lieutenant is beginning to be rather worried about the skiff, and very much annoyed with Lieutenant-Commander Stapleton for not coming back with it.

"Confound the fellow," he says to himself, "first he takes away our one and only steam bus and keeps it all the afternoon as if he was a blighted admiral with a barge of his own, and then, if you please, he must go and borrow the skiff-dinghy and proceed to make a night of it!"

It must be admitted that the officer of the watch has a certain amount of justification for his moan. However, as soon as eight bells strike and he turns over to his relief who is to keep the first watch, he shifts his burden of trouble on to the shoulders of the next man and promptly dismisses the whole affair from his mind. After all, it is none of his business: and seeing that in the ordinary round of his daily care-worn existence it frequently falls to his lot to be obliged to take on the troubles and anxieties of other watch keepers, he is quite entitled to pass on his own worries now; as he unhesitatingly does, and forthwith goes below to find a fresh grievance in that the watch dinner has not been kept properly hot.

The officer of the first watch has the same thing to turn over to his relief; and the middle watch keeper in turn passes on the knowledge to the rather sleepy and very disgruntled officer who turns up on the quarter-deck at twenty minutes past four to keep the morning watch. As his immediate predecessor has been kept waiting these twenty minutes he is not in the best of humour himself and a slight friction arises between the two, which happily vents itself in a shower of lurid objurgations directed against the skiff-dinghy and the misbegotten officer who has borrowed the boat and not brought it back.

The officer of the morning watch thinks it better, under the circumstances, to go himself to the commander's cabin instead of sending the quartermaster, to carry out the directions contained in the commander's Night Order Book—"Call me at 5.30."

He knocks as he pulls aside the curtain and steps into the cabin.

"Commander, sir? It is half-past five. And—er, the skiff has not come back yet, sir."

"Eh? What's that?"—The commander, according to his usual habit, is quite wide awake the moment he is called, and begins at once to take an interest in the affairs of the ship in which he combines the duties of upper housemaid with those of acting-God-Almighty.

"Didn't he say where he was going when he went away in the skiff?" he asks, on hearing the report now made to him.

"No, sir; that is to say, not so far as I know. Nothing was turned over to me about it. I took it for granted that he had gone across to some other ship."

"Never take anything for granted when you are officer of the watch," comes the answer, a rebuke without a sting since it is made in a kindly fashion and comes from an officer who is known, to be just about as efficient as they make 'em and keen as mustard on every detail of the navy he serves and loves.

The sub-lieutenant who had the last dog the evening before, when Stapleton took the skiff away, is roused to give what information he can; unfortunate youth, having looked forward to the pleasure of an all-night-in, not to go on watch again till he should start at eight-thirty to keep the forenoon, he is dragged from his bunk at quarter-to-six; and consequently has several caustic remarks to make about the habits and customs of the energetic commander; but he keeps these remarks to himself.

As a result of this interview a general signal is made asking if any ship has seen anything of the missing skiff. And in a few minutes the reply comes from a ship in an inshore billet that there is a skiff tied up at the landing-place without a boatkeeper, and that this skiff was noticed putting in there last night.

The steamboat is called away and sent in to see if this may happen to be the one in question. It proves to be so, as the boat's crew find out as soon as they get to the pier.

They find something else also.

They find, jammed amongst the rocks, washed by the incoming tide and half afloat at every wave, the battered and disfigured body of a seaman, whose wide staring eyes had in them the look as though they were still seeking something that could never be attained. A little brown silky-eared dog crouches at his head, licking the dead man's face and from time to time whining piteously, not understanding why his master lies there and will not speak.

And near him, just above the line of high water, another body in the uniform of an officer. But this one is not dead, as is presently found, only bruised and faint, and utterly worn out by pain, shock, and weariness. Indeed, he must have crawled half unconsciously out of reach of the tide before he quite succumbed.

Even as his rescuers come up to him he is opening his eyes and beginning feebly to try and struggle to his feet.

Very tenderly and carefully they help him, and carry him to the steamboat; nor is it until they have got him comfortably in the little cabin where he can see nothing that they bring the other man also, the dead man on board and lay the body on the deck for'ard, covering it with boat's flags.

And so they make their way back to the ship.

CHAPTER XXV

Secretary Dimsdale may be bashful enough in the presence of ladies. "They frighten me, and I lose my head at once," is his explanation of the fact—which perhaps accounts for the corresponding fact that up to the present he has never lost his heart. But away from their alarming presence he is a very different man, a shrewd, clear-headed thinker who can put his finger on the essential point of a case in a brace of shakes, the sort of man who might have made a brilliant success as a barrister had he chosen to make a career for himself in civil life.

If he were not a man of this sort, he would never have been picked out for a secretary; for an admiral's secretary, whether on board or in an appointment ashore, has to be a compendium of all the most lustrous qualities of all the most learned professions; he has to be able to talk like a parson, to diagnose like a doctor, to argue and persuade like a lawyer, and to do any or all of these things at a moment's notice; and he must be a cultured man of the world into the bargain. Even all these qualifications would be of little use to him, they would never indeed be sufficient of themselves to secure him his secretaryship, unless he is a rattling good fellow who can win and keep the confidence of everybody from the admiral himself right down to the latest joined midshipman.

Dimsdale is just such a man; his one handicap, his timidity with the fair sex, is a defect which the admiral, who has known him for the past twenty years, optimistically hopes he will some day grow out of. Indeed, Dimsdale hopes so himself; but up to the present he has shown very little sign to encourage such hopefulness.

When, therefore, he escapes from the clutches of Norah and Netta on the fatal afternoon of his accompanying the admiral ashore for a walk on the island, he accepts with alacrity the task of conveying a message to Patrick Sheridan; this is a matter he can deal with—anything, in fact, so long as no more women are mixed up in it.

With that scrupulous conscientiousness which characterises all his official dealings and has contributed so much to his success as a secretary, he determines to undertake the errand in person and not to leave it to a subordinate. The more so, since he looks upon his behest not as an official duty but as an affair of honour; for with all his bashfulness Dimsdale has a very high regard for women, a knightly regard, and looks upon an errand entrusted to him by one of their number as a charge which he is in honour and duty bound to fulfil to the very letter.

On leaving the island, therefore, he proceeds straight to the depôt ship where Sheridan is lodged, and makes enquiries as to where he may be found.

O'Brien, the fleet-surgeon of the depôt ship, who has been taking a stroll on the quarter-deck by way of getting a little exercise in spite of being tied to the ship by the Medical Guard, meets the secretary as he comes on board and answers his enquiries.

"Is it that fellow Sheridan ye're wanting to see, then? Begad, ye'll be lucky if ye can succeed in setting eyes on him, for it's a thing none else of us can do, an' thass a fact! Or may be ourselves that's the lucky ones, for of all the cross-grained murdherin' divils I ever came across in me life, sorra a one did I ever see to bate this ugly-looking shcoundrel! I'm an Irishman meself—though I regret to say I've lost the thrick o' the tongue of my own mother-speech, and many's the one takes me for an Englishman, notin' the entoire absence of brogue in me—but though I tried my best to act friendly towards him when he came on board, he would have no daylin's with me. It's his sort that brings the ould counthry into disrepute, bad luck to them!"

"Well, where can I find him?" asks the secretary.

"In his own cabin, where he sits and refuses to come out or speak to a living soul. He insists on having his meals there—and judging by the number of trips the wine-steward makes to an' fro I should say he is a deal more thirsty than hungry—and there he shtays and refuses all attempts to persuade him to act like a sociable being and come into the mess with the rest of us."

It is not very encouraging; but Dimsdale is not the man to take much account of a little discouragement.

He finds his way to the cabin where Sheridan has, metaphorically speaking, barricaded himself in, and knocking at the tightly-closed door is greeted with a surly "Who's there?"

Taking this for sufficient invitation to enter, without waiting for any further preliminaries, Dimsdale smartly pulls back the sliding door and then with another quick sweeping motion flings aside the thick brown curtain which further impedes his entrance, and sets foot inside the cabin.

"Heavens, man, what an atmosphere! How can you live in a place shut up like this?"—is his first greeting; and no wonder—for to a man coming from the open air and the sunshine this cabin, hermetically sealed, is like a foul dungeon!

Like a dungeon indeed—like a condemned cell, almost; for the man who occupies it conveys the exact impression of a criminal sunk in the lethargy of despair.

He is seated on the narrow bunk, with his legs hanging over the edge, and facing the doorway; he is huddled up with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, the very picture of a trapped enemy of society.

Yet he is a free man, if he would use his freedom; he can mix with the other men on board, and he hopes in a day or two to be more free still—to get clear away from this disquieting place where the spirit of law and discipline irks his mind and troubles his conscience, if he has any conscience remaining to him. Yes, he has made his plans for escaping to the south and losing himself amongst the multitudes—though there is one bothering matter which causes him a little anxiety; that court of enquiry, which he has heard is to take place on the morrow.

In one respect the dark cabin is extremely unlike a prison cell; it reeks with the odour of tobacco, and with the nauseating fumes of whisky; and judging by the strength of both these perfumes, the occupant of the cabin has been indulging himself pretty freely. The effect upon him is to make him even more surly and morose than he is by nature.

"What have ye come in here for? What d'ye want?" are the first words he speaks.

"I have a message for you from your cousin, Miss Norah Sheridan," answers the secretary.

"Where is it? Give it to me"—stretching out his hand and half uncovering his dark and unprepossessing face.

"It is not a written message, only a verbal one," explains Dimsdale. "Miss Sheridan asked me to tell you that she particularly desires to see you to-morrow morning. I shall be happy to arrange for a boat to be at your disposal at any time convenient to you."

Sheridan makes no reply to this polite communication, unless it can be said to be in the nature of a reply that he lowers his hands from his face and glares fixedly and malignantly at the other man.

For about the space of a minute he remains in this ill-humoured silence, and it is doubtful whether he has even listened to the message. But presently he suddenly gives tongue, and rasps out:

"Tell her I'll be with her at ten o'clock sharp."

"Oh, but I'm afraid that will be a little too early, will it not?"

"And for why? Did ye not tell me I could suit my own convenience as to the time?"

"Yes, that is true; but I was forgetting, or at least I took it for granted that you understood, there is to be a court of enquiry on the loss of the Marathon at nine, at which your presence is requested."

"And why should I be present? Do they think I sank the blasted ship? I will not come, then!"

"I myself shall be there, Mr. Sheridan, and yet it is quite certain that I did not sink the ship," answers Dimsdale quietly. "You are under a misapprehension—A court of enquiry is not a court-martial; it is not held to try a prisoner, only to sift matters and endeavour to throw a little light on cases which need clearing up. As you happened to be on board the Marathon shortly before she was lost, it is only natural that the court should wish to question you amongst all the other witnessess."

"What reason have they to suspect me?" Sheridan cries angrily springing down from the bunk to the deck and standing to face Dimsdale in a menacing attitude. "Is this the way you think right to treat a shipwrecked man. I'll not come!"

"It is not a case of suspecting you, or anyone else," the calm voice answers reassuringly; "they will merely question you on any points that may happen to occur to them, with the object of leaving no stone unturned that may chance to throw some light on what is at present a mystery. Probably your share in the examination will only last a few minutes, as you obviously can know very little about it. But I am afraid you will have to make up your mind to be present at the enquiry, though I regret very much that you should be put to such an inconvenience."

"It is an inconvenience—a cursed inconvenience," moodily growls the other. "I—I would rather not come at all. I'm busy!"

Dimsdale can hardly suppress a smile; it is very plainly evident what it is that keeps the solitary man so busy; the spirit bottles, one empty and the other half empty, on the writing-table are evidence enough to this!

But the tendency to smile vanishes when Dimsdale reflects that the excuse is not only rather ludicrous but also exceedingly clumsy.

Why should the man invent such a lame excuse? What is there to keep him from attending the court of enquiry, and for what reason is he so obviously unwilling to be present?

Dimsdale is a good fellow, and hates above all things to conceive a dislike for a man without any good reason—he rightly considers it the mark of an ill-balanced mind to do such a thing. But he is uncomfortably conscious of the fact that he has taken a prejudice against this man. Ever since he entered the cabin the feeling has been growing in him—"There's something mighty queer about this chap; he's a wrong 'un, if ever there was one."

And he is ashamed of himself for allowing such a feeling to take hold of him—yet it will not be suppressed. It is a shame to entertain suspicions of a man in such unfortunate circumstances as this! Dimsdale upbraids himself for giving way to such unworthy sentiments—and finds the sentiments growing stronger every moment!

"I'll thank ye to take a letter to me cousin," says Sheridan, after he has swallowed the unpleasant dose of his enforced presence at the court on the morrow; he also swallows something else to wash it down, and finding that one draught is not sufficient to take away the taste follows it up with another.

"Certainly," replies Dimsdale, pleased to see his man becoming slightly more reasonable, "if you will write it now I will take it with me, and it shall be given to her either to-night or the first thing to-morrow morning."

"To-night would be better," is Sheridan's ungracious remark, as he takes a sheet of note-paper from the writing-table. Then, in a bemused fashion, he fumbles in his pockets for a pencil, and after a little search finds one.

As he takes it from his pocket something comes with it and falls with a little metallic tinkle to the deck.

Sheridan's foot covers it instantly; the incident, slight as it is, appears to have sobered him on the moment. He looks furtively at the other man, to see if he has observed anything.

Dimsdale's eyes, however, are fixed upon a picture on the furthest bulkhead of the cabin, proof positive that his attention has not been attracted by the sound of the falling object, whatever it was.

But he has seen it, though he pretends otherwise. He has seen also the quick, stealthy movement of Sheridan's foot. He never gives a single glance in that direction while Sheridan writes and seals up the letter, nor indeed does he look downwards for the rest of the time that he is in the cabin.

But his quick eyes have observed a little round disc of metal enamelled with a device of certain signs.

Dimsdale knows very well what this little badge means, and the significance of those signs.

It is part of his business to know such things. And he is also well aware that upon the fact that Sheridan believing him unobservant hangs his chance of getting out of the cabin alive.

But he waits for the letter to be finished and placed in his hands without betraying the slightest sign of this.

CHAPTER XXVI

"Under ordinary circumstances," says the secretary to himself when he gets back to his private office, "I should describe it as the act of a dirty dog to open another man's letter, especially a letter addressed to a lady. But, having regard to, well, having regard to that curious ornament so skilfully concealed beneath the flat foot of our extremely morose friend, I think on the whole that the dirty dog business becomes an unpleasant duty."

With which reflection he turns the letter over in his hands, and inspects it closely from the outside.

"Now, if it should turn out to be just an ordinary letter, saying that he has got a couple of stalls for the Coliseum, or asking her to come and have a cocktail as it's his birthday, or something of that sort, I shall feel rather a fool," he muses, "but in any case," he continues with a smile, becoming more of the complete villain as he warms to his task, "she won't know anything about it."

This at least is true. The function of censor, forced on him by the exigencies of war, has at least taught Dimsdale the art of opening even the most carefully stuck down envelope and sealing it up again in such a manner that the recipient would never suspect that such an operation has been performed.

Very deliberately and carefully he makes use of the skill he has acquired, and the methods he employs are so delicate and so efficient that in a few minutes the letter opens as if by a magic touch, and the message lies spread out on the table before him.

It is a very short letter, no more than a few words. Dimsdale reads them over and over again, until he has got them off by heart; and in truth this is not a matter of much difficulty, for all that he has to learn is just this:

"DEAR NORAH,

"There is to be a court of enquiry to-morrow morning. They want me at it, and I shall have to be there. There is no need for you to come, for you cannot tell them any more than I can, and it will only upset you after all you have been through. Tell Netta that she must not dream of coming as she is in far too weak a state to do any such thing. I am sure they will excuse you both. You had better stay in bed and rest yourselves until we leave. Mind, you are not on any account to risk coming to-morrow.

"Your affect. Cousin,
                                                PATRICK."

A very carefully worded letter, thinks Dimsdale; the man must have been a good deal more sober than he looked when he wrote it; he has his wits about him, at all events, and if he is really a wrong 'un he will require some pretty careful handling to-morrow.

"And now to deliver the letter," he says aloud. And in spite of the fact that darkness has now fallen he at once sets about getting the boat called away to take him to the island.

Almost as soon as he has started he overtakes in the darkness a skiff pulled by a single man, and the wash of the steamboat nearly swamps the small craft, so that Dimsdale labouring at the sculls curses the coxswain for an unhandy bat-eyed lubber. But the steamboat goes unheeding on its way, and is starting back again before Stapleton has got halfway to the landing-place.

Arriving at the hut, Dimsdale is greeted by Mrs. Shaw—the only feminine creature who does not inspire him overwhelmingly with fear; and on his saying that he wishes to see Miss Sheridan, lays himself open to the good creature's bantering remarks:

"I suppose you mean Miss Netta Sheridan? You appeared to be getting along very nicely with her a little while ago! And now you have scarcely been a couple of hours away from the place and must needs come gallivanting after her again. Mr. Dimsdale, I'm pleased to note this reformation in you. But, as it happens, you can't see her just now; she is engaged with another admirer, a fine, handsome young bluejacket, a much better-looking man than you are!"

Dimsdale disclaims any desire to speak with Miss Netta. It is Miss Norah he desires to see—he has a note for her which he has promised to deliver as soon as possible.

"That being the case," observed Mrs. Shaw, "you can see her at once; she doesn't happen to have any young man hanging about her at the present moment; though if you had been here an hour or so ago——! Well, well, go in there; you'll find her alone in that room—and I only hope you'll come out of it alive!"

With this parting thrust at his well-known timidity, she motions him to the door of the room and leaves him.

But Dimsdale's timidity falls from him, even in the unaccompanied presence of a beautiful girl, when he has a definite object to pursue; and in this case he certainly has such an object, namely to try and sift the mystery of Patrick Sheridan in order to find out whether there has been any mischief afoot.

Explaining the purpose for which he has come at such an hour, he hands the letter to Norah, and watches her very closely while she reads it.

Will she betray any secret knowledge, anything to give him a hint, a clue, by the tremor of her eyelids or the quiver of her lips?

She gives no such sign, but reads the short missive to its close without changing in the slightest degree the expression of her features, and deliberately folds the letter up and places it again in the envelope.

"Is there any answer you would like to send?" asks the secretary.

"None, thank you," she replies briefly, and waits in silence, evidently expecting him to go.

This is not encouraging. Dimsdale did not expect that there would be any answer to the letter, knowing that it required none; but he hoped for something a little more illuminating than this.

He casts about in his mind for something to say which shall appear natural and at the same time lead to a more fruitful conversation.

One thing causes him embarrassment; he is in the dark as to whether the girls have yet heard of the loss of the Marathon or not; the admiral, it is true, enjoined silence on the subject, but that was in the early part of the afternoon, and a good many people may have been talking since then. Besides, Norah seems to understand Sheridan's letter, with its reference to a court of enquiry.

"Have you heard any news to-day, Miss Sheridan?" It is a lame start, but better than nothing.

"Do you mean the terrible news of the loss of the ship which rescued us last night? Yes, I have heard of it, and am more shocked and distressed than I can possibly tell you," she replies.

Her answer sounds frank enough, but in reality she is fencing with him. Norah is beginning to feel afraid. Why does this man sit there, with his questions and the look of an inquisitor in his piercing eyes?

"Ah, you have heard of it then," he remarks sympathetically: "I am sorry—we hoped to have kept it from you, at least till to-morrow morning."

"Why till to-morrow morning only?" she asks.

"Because there is a sort of enquiry to be held about the unfortunate occurrence then, and it may be necessary to ask you and your cousin to be present."

"I will certainly be there," comes the frank, almost eager reply, "and shall be glad if I can be of any use. So will Netta too, if she is well enough, though you must have seen for yourself this afternoon that she is in a very weak state."

"I did notice it, and was very sorry to see it, though not at all surprised," he makes answer; and then subsides into silence again.

The affair is not progressing! This girl shows no disinclination to making a statement and undergoing examination at the court of enquiry. It is all very perplexing, and Dimsdale begins again to hate himself for being such a cad as to venture false suspicions. But then that little enamelled badge falling from Sheridan's waistcoat pocket!