CHAPTER XXXIII
This time, the sensation amongst the assembled officers of the court is one of genuine consternation. The affair has taken a very serious turn indeed. The mystery of the Marathon's loss is not yet solved, but it promises to have a solution now, and a far more terrible one than could have been deemed possible.
A quick readjustment of ideas and opinions is necessitated by this extraordinary disclosure. The wild-eyed officer with the bandaged head is not out of his mind, after all. The astonishing announcement he has made is not the outcome of a disordered brain but a sober statement of fact. And the two beautiful girls sitting one on each side of Mrs. Shaw are not the unfortunate victims of a brutal outrage upon the high seas, but the agents of a diabolical and successful plot!
All this is extremely disturbing to the mental faculties, which have suddenly to take in and assort these unexpected facts.
It is noticeable that Mrs. Shaw alone does not seem in the least impressed or disturbed. Her opinions or ideas need no re-adjusting, whatever those of other people may require. She betrays no sign of any emotion except that of slight boredom, and does not move an inch except to place her sheltering arms around both girls and draw them a little closer to her.
Not yet is there complete belief in the truth of Norah's words; or perhaps it would be more correct to say that the import of them is not yet completely realised; they are too astounding to be credited on the instant.
"Do you really mean," the admiral addressed her, "that you have made to Mr. Stapleton a confession that you and the others of your party were concerned in the loss of the Marathon?"
"Yes, I do mean it," the girl answers proudly, "and I am glad!"
"What!" exclaims the admiral, shocked at such bravado, as it appears to him. "Glad that you were engaged in such a wicked plot?"
"No, glad that I made confession to Mr. Stapleton. And glad that it has all come to light now—though for some reasons I am very sorry. And I will tell you all you wish to know—I will indeed. But I would rather that you should ask him."
The admiral falls back in his chair and gasps with more than astonishment. The magnitude of this surprising revelation is simply overwhelming. He is quite unable to find words to express what he feels. He can only continue to act as if this nightmare were real daytime truth, and so he puts to Stapleton the query,
"Would you mind telling us, Mr. Stapleton, just what it was that led to this confession? I cannot believe it yet!"
"I am sorry to say it is only too true, sir I myself could hardly credit it at first, till events forced it upon my belief. The discovery, or rather the confession, was partly due to my chancing to remember some words let fall by Miss Netta Sheridan when on board the Marathon—words to which I paid no attention when they were first repeated to me, as they had evidently been spoken under very great nervous strain."
"What words? What sort of words?" the admiral questions. "Perhaps Miss Netta would repeat them herself? I should prefer to hear them at first-hand."
"Oh—oh—oh!" Netta wails; she is incapable of saying more than this, and again buries her head in the bosom of Mrs. Shaw, after the manner of the action popularly ascribed to the ostrich when trouble threatens.
"Poor girl," cries the secretary, in quite an unusually stern voice. "She's—she's ill, sir. She is not in a fit state to be pressed to speak!"
"I will speak for her," calmly says her cousin. "It is perfectly true that we were all three of us in a plot to blow up the ship—but it was I alone who had to do the actual deed. I had the bomb."
"Oh, Norah, Norah," moans the other girl, "must you do this?"
"Was it a statement of this sort you meant when you referred to words let fall by Miss Netta on board the Marathon?" asks the admiral of Stapleton.
"Yes, sir, that was it exactly. It appears that she suddenly repented of her part in the affair, and tried to tell the surgeon and another officer about it in order to get them to take the necessary action and save the ship."
"Who was that other officer? Was he rescued, or——?"
"No, sir, he was lost with the ship. Neither he nor the surgeon paid any attention to what they considered the girl's ravings, and in fact did not tell me anything about it till much later, and then as it were by way of a joke."
"A joke! But you were first lieutenant of the ship; did you treat the matter as a joke yourself?"
"No, sir. Though I thought as they did, that the words were those of a girl who was not responsible for what she was saying. But nevertheless, I caused a search to be made throughout the ship, both on the upper deck and the main deck, I knew that none of the party could have gone further below than that."
"You acted quite rightly. And you found nothing?"
"Nothing, sir. And that, I suppose, is what caused me to forget all about the matter until later."
"And a pity you ever remembered it!" cries Mrs. Shaw, no longer able to contain her indignation. "No, Admiral Darlington, it's no use your telling me to hold my tongue; it's high time that someone possessed of a little common-sense should speak a word. Can't you see for yourself that the surgeon on board the Marathon was quite right? He didn't believe a word of all this poor frightened girl's imaginary story—he put it down to the right cause, their sufferings; and he ought to know, being a doctor, a good deal better than this fool of a nephew of mine who has obviously only begun to believe in the story since he has had this knock on the head which has made him crazy for the time being! To put it plainly, they are all three of them a little unhinged. As for the girls, on the top of all they have been through I suppose they must have somehow or other got to hear about the loss of the Marathon—you can't keep these things secret, however much you may try—and, as a result, they have just dreamt this ridiculous story! I'm surprised at your listening to it!"
"Well, Mrs. Shaw, upon my word, I'm more than half inclined to agree with you," mutters the admiral. And the whole of the court, braced by the cold douche of Mrs. Shaw's plain common-sense, begins to think that perhaps it has been a little too ready to give credence to the sensation offered it.
Stapleton himself is to a certain extent impressed by this view of the situation. He forgets, for the moment, the meeting of Dick Baynes and Norah in his presence, and the disclosure of her having been in Glasgow the previous week. Nor can he be blamed for forgetting, after such a shaking-up as he has had in falling over the cliff. He almost begins himself to believe that they have all of them been the victims of hallucination; and there is the opinion of the fleet-surgeon to back up this belief.
"May I ask a question, sir?" It is Norah who is unexpectedly addressing the admiral.
"Certainly you may, my dear Miss Sheridan." The admiral is actuated by very kindly feelings towards the girl whom he regards with more than a little pity—"of course you may. What is it you wish to ask?"
"I would like to ask Mr. Stapleton if he thinks that I was in my right mind at the time I made my confession to him."
It is a terribly difficult position, that in which Stapleton finds himself now. He came here to accuse and denounce this girl it is true; but his accusation has been coldly received and largely discredited—in so far that he himself is half converted to the view that the whole charge is a phantasy of the imagination. And, now, the thought uppermost in his mind is how he may save Norah from the consequences of her own action; for he has made one great discovery since he came into the room—that his love for her is not dead, but stronger than ever.
"What have you to say to this, Stapleton?" says the admiral, noting the silence of the young officer.
"I would rather not answer the question, sir."
"But I am afraid I must insist upon your doing so."
"Yes," Norah adds to the admiral's quiet command, "answer me, please."
"Why do you torture me?" cries the unhappy lover, goaded beyond endurance, "can't you see that you are making me——"
"Answer me!"
"Come, Stapleton," urges the admiral, "we are waiting."
Thus constrained, Stapleton at last makes answer.
"She seemed to me to be entirely in possession of her senses."
"And did you believe what I told you?" continues Norah. She will not spare him.
Again he takes refuge in silence.
"Will you answer her, please?" somewhat impatiently speaks the admiral.
"I could not help believing her."
"Thank you. There is only one more question I want to ask you," the girl continues. "Having heard all that has been said here, what do you now believe to have been the cause of the blowing up of the Marathon?"
Instead of replying to her, Stapleton faces the president of the court, and in a clear, steady voice makes a moving appeal for mercy.
"Sir," he cries, "I submit that the questions now put to me are such as I ought not to be called upon to answer, for the reason that they all tend to prejudice the case against these young ladies. I came here to accuse them, true! It was my duty to do so. But it is not my duty to help them to condemn themselves. And there is another thing which must be said—neither of these two girls actually had a hand in depositing the bomb on board. One of them dissociated herself from the attempt at a very early stage, and the other—this lady who has tried so hard to influence this court against herself—not only repented of her share in the plot but really did her utmost to prevent it being carried out."
"What do you mean by that last remark? Explain yourself please," the admiral says.
"She had the bomb concealed in her dress, and according to arrangement, her part in the affair was to place it somewhere in the ship before making her escape with the others. She refused to do so. And when the man of the party tried to seize the bomb from her, she resisted him, in the effort to save the ship from destruction."
"Dear me!" ejaculates the president, "well, well! This is really a most extraordinary state of affairs altogether. What on earth could have induced you," turning to Norah, "to take part in such a terrible business, such a wicked scheme?"
"I was brought up from childhood to hate the English," Norah answers. "My father hated them, and trained me up in his own ideas. At first I made his opinions my own just because they were my father's; but afterwards I came to hold them and believe in them on my own account. You see, my father was killed by the English. And that broke my mother's heart—she died, too. Do you think I had great cause to feel friendship for the nation that brought them both to their death?"
"Poor girl, poor girl!" exclaims the admiral, almost forgetting her complicity in the plot in his sympathy for her troubled life. "Then you say it was just your inherited hatred of England that prompted you to take part in this conspiracy, you and your cousin here?"
"No, sir, not Netta. She was cowed by her brother, and persuaded by myself. You must not blame her, I tell you; in her heart she was against it from the very beginning—only, she was forced into it. Netta is innocent—at any rate in intention; as for myself, I do not want any excuses to be made for me, and I neither ask nor desire any mercy to be shown me."
"You were fully determined, you say, to carry out this wicked plan to the very end?"
"Yes, I really meant to do the deed. I hated all the English."
"And—you hate us still?"
"I—no, not now; God forgive us, I cannot do so now."
"But did you not, then, actually place this bomb in the ship?"
"No, sir, it was taken from me by my cousin, Patrick."
"Then, did he find means to conceal it on board the Marathon?"
"I do not know. But I suppose he must have done so, since the ship blew up."
This proves too much for good Mrs. Shaw. She cannot keep silent any longer.
"Oh, I have no patience with any of you!" she exclaims, in superb disregard of officialdom. "Norah, I should like to shake you! I should like to shake all of you! Isn't it enough for you to know that there was a lot of bad gunpowder on board the ship? What other explanation do you want? Nasty dangerous stuff at the best of times, and goodness only knows how dangerous it must be when it has turned sour and gone bad or whatever it is that happens to it. You seem to have forgotten all about that, and here you are listening to a crack-brained fellow and a couple of hysterical girls with a cock-and-bull story of a plot and a bomb! Really, for a lot of grown-up men, I'm ashamed of you all!"
There is something in what she says. Her words are not without their effect upon her listeners. On all sides there is evident by the expression of their faces that they would much prefer to believe in the more rational explanation supplied by the knowledge of the defective ammunition, and that they are not quite certain that they are not making fools of themselves in giving a hearing to this strange story which appears more and more as it goes on to be based on nothing firmer than an over-excited imagination.
"I think, sir," remarks an officer, voicing the opinions of the rest, "that while no doubt this that we have just been told should of course be thoroughly sifted, we certainly ought not to lose sight of the possibilities of the defective cordite; and I cannot refrain from giving my opinion that when we have concluded the examination it is in this that we shall find, so far as we can ever hope to find, the real cause of the Marathon's loss."
A chorus of murmured approval follows the speaker as he ends this direct little speech; and the universal wish is evidently for suppressing the melodramatic story-tellers; nobody really believes in them—their story fails to convince. And in all probability if they can be decently dismissed now, the whole incident will presently be allowed to sink into oblivion.
But there is always, at a public gathering, which the majority are anxious to see ended, some annoying person who is possessed of an equally keen desire to prolong the proceedings.
It is so on this present occasion. Rising in his place, an officer of the court suggests:
"There is one thing which I consider we ought to do at once, without waiting further, in regard to this matter."
All the others cast glances of profound disgust upon this officious busybody. The luncheon hour has long gone by, forgotten in the excitement of the unexpected interlude; and now, if there is more talking to be done that will not brook delay, heaven only knows what hour it will be before anyone is able to get a feed!
"Well, and what is it?" The admiral, unconsciously affected by the same corporeal needs as the others, is just a little short-tempered.
"I think, sir, that we ought to hear the statement of the other witness of the—the three shipwrecked passengers, the man of the party."
They have forgotten Patrick Sheridan! Only this annoying suggestion recalls his existence to the minds of the assembled officers.
"Yes, perhaps you are right," says the admiral, suppressing a sigh. He is very hungry! "I suppose we ought to examine him as well as the others. Perhaps he will be able to account for these—these somewhat improbable theories we have been listening to. Bring him in, and let's get it over!"
CHAPTER XXXIV
Patrick Sheridan had a disquieting fear of this Court of Enquiry ever since he first heard that it was about to be held, and that he himself would be required to be present at it, and give evidence.
"Ye never can tell," his anxiety prompts him to reflect, "what may slip from your tongue without thinking, the way they bother you with their cunning questions till ye're in the divil's own danger of letting fall the truth whether ye will or no! 'Tis the mean, underhand way to treat a man! What chance does it give him to keep cool, and tell lies with an honest face?"
He resents the prospect of this unfair treatment very bitterly.
One hope alone buoys him up—that the girls will not be present to contradict his story, and so spoil his chances of deceiving the court. Alone, he should not find this task a very difficult one; he only has to repeat the story he has already told and refrain as far as possible from overloading it with details which may not bear investigation. And so far as he knows, there is not likely to be any doubt cast upon his narrative by the officers of the court.
So far as he knows! His anxiety would be considerably greater than it already is if he only knew how far his story has been brought into suspicion even before he has told it!
The first blow to his sense of security is when he enters the court-room and perceives Norah and Netta seated opposite to him. A flush of fear and anger wells up over his dark visage—anger, because he thinks that this secretary-fellow has betrayed him by failing to deliver his letter to Norah telling her not to appear at the court, nor to allow Netta to come. A dirty trick! If a man cannot trust another to perform an important errand like this, what is there left in the world of honour and loyalty, and the obligations of duty between gentlemen, and what faith can any longer be placed in human nature?
Yes, the girls are here, worse luck, so there can be no doubt that his note was never delivered!
One does not like to imagine how deeply wounded would be Patrick's sense of outraged honour, if only he knew that his letter had indeed been delivered, but had first been opened and read clandestinely! His hopes for the future of humanity would probably have dwindled into utter despair!
Up to the moment of his entering the room Patrick has felt, on the whole, that matters have gone fairly well, and he has every cause for self-congratulation: with any luck, he and the girls should be able to get away from this vicinity very soon, perhaps this same afternoon, and hide themselves in some place where they can pursue their plans for another attempt of the same sort.
But, next time, the plans will have to be laid very much more carefully, he can see that! A first experiment always reveals many little details that have been overlooked in spite of the belief that every care has been taken; another time, the experience gained in this first endeavour will teach many a useful lesson.
Still, however faulty the first plan may have been, there is this to be said—that the Marathon has undoubtedly been blown up, and now lies where Patrick would like to have the remainder of the British Navy lie, at the bottom of the sea. The news of it was not long in reaching his ears; scarcely had he been an hour on board the Depôt ship when he heard of it, and he had great difficulty at the time in checking the grin of delight that involuntarily expressed his real feelings; once he had obtained the mastery over his features it was an easier matter to frame the suitable words to signify his horror and grief at the dreadful catastrophe.
Patrick Sheridan does not present a very attractive appearance as he glares around the room where the court is assembled. His face is livid and his eyes are bloodshot. The hours he has been spending alone shut up in his almost hermetically-sealed cabin have not tended to give him a healthy look; and the continual whisky-drinking in which those hours have been mostly spent has added the last touch to the brutalising of a face already darkened and distorted by the evil workings of his mind added to the natural moroseness of his disposition.
He throws a look of anger and contempt at Norah, who meets his glance fearlessly; another glare of still more bitter hatred he turns upon the secretary.
A chair is brought for him, and he is politely requested to be seated. The admiral greets him with a courteous, if somewhat cool, good-morning.
Such politeness is in itself quite enough to arouse Sheridan's suspicions. He does not like the look of things at all; this behaviour savours too much of the unnatural kindness which gaolers show to a man about to be executed, when there is no point of denying a little to one who is shortly going to lose all.
This very uncomfortable sensation is not without its effect upon Patrick's excited mind. He ignores the steps taken for his personal comfort, waving angrily aside the man who has politely brought a chair for him, and shouting to the court at large:
"I protest against this unwarrantable treatment! I'd have ye to understand that I consider ye a set of bullyin' tyrants, iv'ry wan o' ye! Haven't I already given ye all the information within my power about the shipwreck? An' for why have I been kept shut up in a room by myself, and then brought here like a prisoner in a dock? I protest against it, I say!"
This fellow doth protest too much, thinks Dimsdale; but he discreetly keeps his thoughts to himself, and attempts no interference with the routine of the enquiry.
"I am very sorry indeed if you have been put to any annoyance or inconvenience," says the suave voice of the admiral; "and I hope you will quite understand that the only object in requesting you to be present here this morning is that we may obtain your kind assistance in our attempts to clear up the mystery of the Marathon. We shall not keep you very long, if you will be good enough to answer a few questions which I wish to put to you."
Patrick is to a certain extent soothed by this friendly speech. He begins to realise, too, that he has made a mistake in openly showing his suspicious fears. So, endeavouring to rectify this initial error, he replies:
"I'll answer anything ye like to ask—though, mind you, I still consider you are treating me very unhandsomely."
"I wish for nothing better than to be able to make you an apology, presently, Mr. Sheridan. It is only fair to tell you, to begin with, that a very extraordinary charge has been made here in this court against yourself and the two ladies of your party—no less than a charge of conspiracy to destroy one of His Majesty's ships of war. In other words, to put the matter plainly, one of the Marathon's officers has stated that you all contrived to get taken on board for this exact purpose; and one of the young ladies, at any rate, makes no attempt to deny the story, but as a matter of fact confesses the truth of it."
Patrick has managed with the utmost difficulty to keep his features under control during this speech of the president; fortunately for him, his general expression is so malevolent that a slight additional shade of angry terror makes scarcely any perceptible difference.
"How can ye give heed to such crazy fancies, sir?" he asks with assumed nonchalance—"sure, the terrible experience they have been through has turned their brains! Ye haven't brought me here, I trust, to question me on such fool's talk as this?"
He speaks in an assured tone of half angry, half amused, contempt; hoping by sheer audacity to avoid this terribly dangerous pitfall which has yawned before his feet. And succeeds better than he has dared to hope, not knowing how well his words attune with the sentiments of the court.
"Exactly," says the president; "our sincere hope—and I think I may say, our expectation—is, that it may prove to be, as you say, an invention of overheated imaginations; and in that case, we shall be very ready to make allowance for the very natural mental distress resulting from all these shocking events."
Sheridan nods in acquiescence, thinking it best to say as little as possible and hoping devoutly that the incident may be regarded as closed.
And in fact the president goes on to talk of other matters.
"Now, the first question I wish to put to you is—did you sail from Galveston, Texas, in the S.S. Botopi?"
"I did." This is fairly safe ground, and Patrick feels very little anxiety in replying to questions of this nature; he has already told the same story in other ears, and is well up in all its details; they won't catch him out here!
"And were these young ladies in your company?"
"They were."
"What relation are they to yourself?"
"One of them is my sister—or to be more correct, my half-sister; and the other is my cousin."
"Had you been long in America before you came across in the Botopi?"
"We had been settled there for about three years."
"Then there is no truth whatever in the statement made to this court by an officer now present, that you did not really come from America at all?"
"No truth whatever. I cannot imagine how such an idea can have entered the mind of anyone. I have letters on me to prove that I was in Texas up to the time of the Botopi's sailing, and can give you as many references as you require, in America, testifying to my living there for three years previously."
All of which is perfectly true. Patrick has taken these obvious precautions, and is well supplied with witnesses and testimony of all kinds.
"And you say that your steamer was torpedoed and sunk in the early morning of the day before yesterday by a German submarine?"
"She was that."
"Do you happen to have a passenger-list with you?"
"No. I had one, as all the saloon passengers did, but we were obliged to leave in such a divil of a hurry that I left all my papers behind with the rest of my gear. Everything is lost now, of course."
The court accepts without question this most natural explanation. Dimsdale is alone in noting that it was a little inconsistent of the man to have the forethought to bring along with him letters by which he might be identified.
"But," remarks the president, "I must inform you that the Botopi's agents in Galveston have been cabled, and have replied that your names were not in the passenger-list."
"That, sir, is easily explained," Sheridan replies. "We did not decide to leave until the last minute, when all the berths were taken. Fortunately three of the intending passengers cancelled their departure, and I was able to buy from them the berths which were booked in their names."
"H'm! And what were the names of these people, Mr. Sheridan? Can you remember?"
"Indeed, then, I can. They were a maiden lady, a Miss Pearson, and two brothers by the name of Newman."
"I suppose there is no means of verifying this statement, since you do not happen to possess a passenger-list?"
The secretary comes to the rescue here. "The Company have sent another cable since the first one, sir," he informs the admiral, "giving a complete list of the Botopi's passengers."
"Good! Have you got it here?"
"Yes, sir."
"And do you find any mention in it of these names which Mr. Sheridan has quoted?"
The secretary runs rapidly through the list, consulting a cablegram which he has picked from the pile of papers on the table before him.
"Miss Pearson—yes, that name's here; and—what did you say were the other names, Mr. Sheridan?"
"Newman. There were two of them, brothers, and they were to have shared the same cabin, the cabin which the girls afterwards had."
"Mr. James Newman; Mr. Robert Newman," reads the secretary from his list. "Yes, they are both mentioned."
"Really, Admiral, if you will permit me to say one word," breaks in once more the protesting voice of Mrs. Shaw. "It seems very ridiculous to go on with these absurd and unnecessary enquiries. Mr. Sheridan's explanation is obviously true, and you can go into the matter of his proofs any time you wish. And by that time, I hope, these young people's nerves will have got a little stronger, and they will have forgotten all their bad dreams."
"I am more than half inclined to think you are right, Mrs. Shaw."
"Of course I am right! Am I ever anything else?"
"In this present instance at any rate I must admit I think you have been right all along. Of course, if it had not been for that very important evidence about the Marathon's defective ammunition, we might have been obliged to admit our inability to assign a reasonable cause for the disaster. As for this other matter, I think we have all of us come to the same conclusion. I shall of course have to ask you, Mr. Sheridan, for those proofs of your statements which you say you possess or can procure, and I have little doubt that they will prove satisfactory. For the present, we can consider this enquiry closed."
There is a sigh of relief throughout the room—and a most heartfelt one from Patrick Sheridan. And all of those present make their preparations for leaving—when they are interrupted by the sharply insistent voice of the secretary:
"One moment, sir, if you please!"
CHAPTER XXXV
All eyes are directed towards the secretary, and his attempt to prolong the enquiry is greeted with no very good humour. In fact, he has made himself suddenly very unpopular with his "one moment, sir, if you please"—which of course means a good many moments and a corresponding postponement of lunch.
Nor is this general feeling the only ground of resentment against him. The poor man is once more made to feel the lash of Mrs. Shaw's tongue.
"Oh, it is you again, Mr. Dimsdale?" she upbraids him—"are you not tired yet of bullying these poor creatures? It was your fault from the start, I remember, that they were ever brought here. A nice, manly action, is it not, to subject two poor sick girls to such treatment."
"I—I am very sorry, Mrs. Shaw, very sorry indeed," stammers the poor man. And indeed he speaks sincerely, since he has conceived something more than a liking for one of these two girls, both of whom he considers as victims rather than organisers of the diabolical plot; for he is thoroughly convinced—he is the only member amongst the whole court who is convinced—of the reality of the plot, and he not only knows it to be his duty to expose it, but feels that this is his only chance of so doing.
So he says, "I am very sorry, Mrs. Shaw. But I do not wish to question these ladies at all. It is Mr. Sheridan to whom I would like to address a few brief questions, with the permission of the President."
"Go on then, Dimsdale," grudgingly assents the admiral; "but be as quick as you can."
"I will, sir. In fact, if Mr. Sheridan can satisfy me on the very few points I wish to put to him, I shall not delay the court more than a very few minutes."
The man thus referred to looks darkly at the secretary, and a shade of perplexity creeps over his face. He was beginning to feel quite cheerful and almost to look so, at the happy turn which events were taking for him. But now the affair is apparently going to be re-opened—and Sheridan does not like it at all!
What fresh questions are going to be put to him? What details are there that he has not already supplied? What new trap is now being laid to ensnare him?
Yes, that last doubt really accounts for the sudden spasm of fear that clutches at his heart; there is a trap, he knows it, and it is going to be one which will take him all his wits to avoid.
How he hates the smooth-faced secretary with the piercing eyes! How he hates him, and—fears him!
Really, this will not do—this cold dread is making him feel quite unnerved; he must pull himself together, or else he will never be able to reply convincingly, and his hopeless condition will become evident to the whole court—almost sufficient of itself to condemn him in their eyes!
In the midst of his bewilderment the secretary's first question breaks in upon his ears through the buzzing, humming noise like the sound of many waters which has quite unaccountably been filling them these last few moments.
"Will you please tell me, Mr. Sheridan—what colour was the Botopi painted?"
The blow has fallen!—oh, fool that he was, not to have thought of a thing like this before! How could he have omitted to make certain of such a simple detail?
There is only one thing to do—to hazard a guess and hope that it may chance to be a lucky one.
Foolishly, he discounts his credibility by not answering boldly at once. Instead, he hesitates, and speaks only after a pause; this would be almost enough to make him appear to be guessing, even if he were really speaking from knowledge; but he is off his balance altogether.
"Black," he replies.
"Are you quite certain?"
The question is evidently intended to nail him down to his statement; but it suggests to him an opportunity for hedging a little.
"Yes," he replies, feeling his way as he speaks; "but it was an indistinct sort of black—it might have appeared a kind of grey in some lights; or even a very dark green."
"Thank you."
Dimsdale gives no indication whether he is satisfied with the reply or not. But at least it is something to the good that he does not deny its correctness. Perhaps it is correct, then! Sheridan begins to feel a little hope.
"And how many funnels had she?"
This second question comes without any comment on the former one. Sheridan feels himself on firmer ground here. Of all the passenger ships he has ever seen, and he has seen a good many in his time, the vast majority have had two funnels. Cargo tramps, of course, generally have one funnel only, and some of the gigantic liners have three or four; but the Botopi was neither cargo-tramp nor first-class liner, and so he has much less hesitation than before in making his reply:
"Two."
"Quite sure?" says the persuasive voice of the secretary—"are you certain they didn't look as if they might be three, or even four, in some lights?"
This man is mocking him! With his smooth sarcastic tongue and his calm emotionless face he is simply playing with him!
"There were two, I'm after tellin' ye," suddenly growls the baited man.
"Thank you." Again the quiet and unquestioning acceptance of his reply. This time, however, Sheridan does not feel quite so happy about it; the absence of comment on Dimsdale's part has now become ominous rather than assuring.
A tense silence settles upon the room; everyone from the President of the court downwards looks expectantly towards the two men fencing with question and answer; it is somewhat brought home quite clearly to everyone that these two are fighting a duel to the death.
Netta looks on with grave anxiety and seems to have given away to utter despair, as if she knows that the catastrophe hanging over them cannot be warded off for long now. As for Norah, more than once she opens her lips to speak, and half rises from her chair; but Mrs. Shaw checks her by a motion of the hand—as though she too feels that the ring should be kept clear for the two antagonists.
Stapleton, who has sunk back apathetically in a seat on finding his revelation of a conspiracy dismissed with scant attention, now finds his interest fully re-awakened, and leans forward breathlessly so that not a word shall escape him.
The atmosphere is electric. Even the fleet surgeon who came with Stapleton and has been trying for the last quarter of an hour to induce his patient to return with him now desists from his well-intentioned efforts and rivets his gaze on the two antagonists as keenly as the rest.
Yet the secretary gives no indication of having any startling surprise in store, or of being in any way dissatisfied with the replies he has so far received. Each question, as soon as it is answered, he drops entirely and goes on to another subject.
For the third time he propounds one of his quite commonplace queries:
"During the voyage home, was the Botopi stopped by any British man-of-war?"
This is rather an awkward poser for Sheridan; yet he must make some sort of reply. It occurs to him that perhaps his interrogator is merely bluffing and does not know the correct reply to his own question. In that case Sheridan need not care greatly what answer he gives. But suppose Dimsdale does know? Well, then he must hazard a Yes or No, and try to find some way of explaining his mistake if he happens by ill-luck to hit upon the wrong answer.
It is pretty certain, the wretched man reflects, that the ship was stopped. The cordon has been drawn so closely that very few Transatlantic vessels succeed in escaping the meshes of the net; and every steamer that is sighted, Sheridan knows, is stopped for examination.
So, after all, there is not such a very great risk about the reply. He makes up his mind to chance it.
"Yes," he says, "we were held up by a warship and afterwards allowed to proceed."
"How many days after you had left Galveston did this happen?"
What can the fellow be driving at? Well, no matter, this question is easier to evade than the previous one.
"I think it was either on the third or the fourth day out; but I am not quite certain about it; it took place with so very little delay and fuss that it made no very distinct impression upon my memory."
"Did this take place in the daytime or during the night?"
It will be much safer to say in the night; for then Sheridan will be spared from describing things that happened during his sleep.
"It was in the night," he therefore makes answer.
Once more the secretary drops the subject but this time he does not turn to a fresh one nor renew his questions. Instead he bends over his pile of documents, searching till he finds what he wants. Turning them rapidly over he at length picks out a paper from the heap, and spreads it on the table before him.
Then, turning to the President of the court he begins!
"Sir, it was not to be expected that Mr. Sheridan should be acquainted with the conditions under which the tenth Cruiser Squadron does its work, or else he might realise that now and then, very rarely, it is true, a vessel does succeed in getting through the patrol without being sighted. Now, this report,"—holding one of his papers up to view—"is one that was received by wireless on the very morning when the Botopi was sunk; it reads as follows:
"'S.S. Botopi, Galveston to Hull, sailed on the eighth instant, should be brought in for examination if met.'—which proves clearly enough that the vessel was not met by any of our patrols up to that date. Yet Mr. Sheridan, who says he was a passenger in the Botopi, tells us that she was met and held up on the third or fourth day out, and that this happened during the night; he is quite clear about these facts."
"An' so we were met an' stopped, as I'm tellin' ye," shouts Sheridan, who sees that his only chance is to brazen it out; "'tis all a big mistake somewhere—that report ye have in your hand, sir, is not correct at all!"
"Possibly," says the Secretary drily. "It may be, of course, that the patrol ship which Mr. Sheridan declares to have met the Botopi had some accident to her wireless and consequently was unable to signal the report. But let that go——"
"Indeed you may well say that! An' let me go too. Can ye not take the word of a gentleman but must throw doubts upon me statements? 'Tis time we put an end to this foolishness. Come, Netta, and Norah, too. We'll not be staying any longer!"
"Not so fast, Mr. Sheridan, please," quietly insists the secretary—"They say, sir," again addressing himself to the admiral, "that even the most cunning criminals invariably overlook some important details. In this present case it would have been as well for the success of the plot to have found out something about the general appearance of the Botopi."
"What d'ye mean," breaks in Sheridan, trying to shout the other man down now that he sees the trap closing; "I refuse to submit to this dirty sneaking cross-questioning! 'Tis a plot to desthroy me. Keep you silent now, ye low scoundrel!"
The secretary pays not the slightest attention to this outburst, but goes on in the same calm voice:
"The report I have just been quoting from, calling for the Botopi to be brought in for examination, gives, as is the usual custom, a description of the general appearance of the vessel. And I may add, that I have this morning cabled to the agents in order to make certain that this description is correct.
"Mr. Sheridan has informed us that the steamer had two funnels also, that her hull was painted black—though he qualifies this statement to the extent of saying that she might possibly appear green or grey. But the Company's own account of the vessel states that she is a one-funnelled ship, and that she is painted in accordance with the request of Germany in broad bands of red and white.
"Now, I think it must now become clear to this court how utterably unreliable this man Sheridan's statements are; in fact, they are nothing but a tissue of lies from beginning to end. And it will be presently seen that he was not shipwrecked—that there was a very cunning and ingenious plot to blow up the Marathon—and that this fellow is at the bottom of it all!"
CHAPTER XXXVI
Dimsdale brings his accusing words to a close in a silence that is almost painful in its intensity. All eyes are upon him. He remains calm and unperturbed as ever, and there is no flush of triumph in his face but rather on the contrary a slight pallor, befitting one who has accomplished a duty, to his own cost.
A gurgling throaty sound diverts the gaze of all from the secretary to the fallen victim of this duel.
Sheridan is trying to speak, and is clutching at his throat as if something is there that blocks the passage of his words. His livid face has changed to an angry blotchy purple, not pleasant to look upon.
The game is up and he knows it. Then the furious torrent of his abuse finds utterance.
"Curse, ye, ye murdherin' lawyer," he shouts at Dimsdale, "may the divil take ye!—I'll keep it up no longer—why should I? Sure, 'tis my glory and pride to call myself England's enemy! I defy ye! I'll fight ye fair, and I'll tell ye all!"—he glares around the court with such fierce blazing eyes that more than one man involuntarily lowers his gaze before them—"No need for that sneaking hound to drag the truth from me by inches—I'll not demean myself, talking to such trash! 'Twill be my proudest boast that I did what I could, an' may there be many to follow after me! I did not sail from America, then. 'Twas from a little spot on the coast of Scotland that I put out, the very same day the Marathon left harbour, knowing well the way she would pass, an' prayin' in me heart I might be the desthruction of her—as I would be of ivery ship in the cursed English Navy if 'twas in my power to be! I hoped that I might fool thim on board of her and bring them to their death!"
A gasp of horror at this devilish avowal escapes the admiral's lips. But for this, not a sound nor a word is raised in interruption as Sheridan goes on:
"An' we did fool ye, fine! I could have laughed aloud at the lot of ye, poor simpletons that ye were, ready to listen to the first foolish tale that was poured into your long ears! 'Tis the English all over—and ye think yourselves the cleverest nation on earth. Pah, I deshpise the lot of ye."
"Then it was you that—Call in the guard, we must have him under arrest," exclaims the President.
"Under arrest is it? Dye think I hadn't made provision for the chance of that same? Bad luck to me that I failed to blow up the ship! Though as things turned out——"
"He failed! Listen to him—do you hear what he says? He failed to blow up the ship!"—It is Stapleton who cries aloud like an inspired prophet to whom has been revealed a life-giving message; and the glory of this enlightenment transfigures his face with a wonderful radiance.
He staggers across the room even as he speaks, and stands at Norah's side. He would show her, it seems, that his love is not dead, and would have her to understand how utterly glad he is that his hateful duty has been accomplished without bringing the dreaded results upon her head.
But she sees nothing of her lover's pleading looks and gestures. She has hidden her face, and is cowering down before the stinging fury of Patrick's invective. Well she knew that her cousin would not spare her.
"As for you, you traitress," he snarles at her, "black shame to you for preventing me! To hell with you for a perjured girl that has brought disgrace upon her country and dishonoured her mother's grave! Ah, then, don't think ye'll escape for your treachery—you and your fine lover for whose sake ye've sold yourself. I say, to hell with ye—to hell with ye all! The Saints above be praised, I've still got the bomb!"
Before anyone can realise what the man is doing, much less make any attempt to prevent him, he plunges his hand beneath his coat and draws from its hiding place there something which he holds closely to his eyes and fumbles with hastily.
What this object may be is not clearly discernible; it is hidden by Sheridan's hands except for a momentary gleam of white metal.
But Norah knows and so does Netta. Both the girls spring to their feet and raise their voices simultaneously in a warning cry.
Too late! Patrick has succeeded in securing the moments necessary for adjusting the bomb for instantaneous explosion, and with a mocking laugh of triumph he flings it to the ground in the midst of the court.
There is a shriek from Netta—the first start of a movement on the part of everyone to make a rush for the doors; as if there could be time to save themselves—and the crashing noise of the metal bomb falling on the wooden floor.
And no other sound follows. The bomb has failed to explode!
Already most of those present are crowding at the doorways. Sheridan stands with folded arms, smiling contemptuously; he knows that it is only an affair of an instant, and that before anyone can force a way from the room the whole building will be wrecked to atoms.
Mrs. Shaw, brave woman, has not joined in the general stampede. She is seizing the two girls and endeavouring to pull them down to the ground as the safest place where little safety of any sort is to be found.
But Norah tears herself away.
Ah, what is the rash girl about to do?
Stapleton sees, and leaps after her to prevent her; but he is not in time, she is too quick for him.
She dashes across the floor of the room to where the bomb lies in the midst. It is but a second since it has left Sheridan's hands. He too, starts forward to stop her, but she evades him.
She has picked up the bomb and is holding it tightly in her hand. No time to alter the adjustment now—there is only one thing to be done, and she does it.
She takes a few quick running strides towards one of the windows, and hurling the bomb with all her strength sends it crashing through the glass.
It scarcely touches the ground outside before it explodes with a deafening roar. The whole building rocks, and the windows of the room are blown inwards, the clatter of broken glass and splintered framework adding to the noise and confusion.
Stapleton has reached Norah's side a moment after the bomb leaves her hand, and is bending over her to shelter her with his body as the building sways with the concussion.
A moment, and the danger is seen to be over. The force of the explosion has spent itself in the open air, and save for a few falling stones and loosened plaster, broken windows and unhinged doors, the house is unscathed, and so are all within it.
Still holding Norah in his arms, Stapleton whispers incoherent words of love and admiration for her deed. He scarcely knows what he is saying; but he knows that he will never let her go away from him again.
And, indeed, she pays but little heed to her lover's words. Gently disengaging herself from his arms she turns from him and moves towards the admiral, who is one of the few who have not attempted to escape from the room; both he and Dimsdale have kept their places calmly through it all.
Norah is standing before the admiral and looking up appealingly into his kindly face. She comes to him as a suppliant; but as a suppliant who claims rather than begs for mercy.
"It was quite true," she says in a low voice, but so clearly that everyone can hear what she is saying, "there was a bomb—but you have seen what has become of it! That bomb was never used for the wicked purpose it was intended for; whatever it was that sank the Marathon, it was no deed of ours."
"Bad cordite, right enough; no doubt about that now!" interrupts Dimsdale, speaking quite cheerfully as if it were something he is greatly pleased about.
"And I saved you, I saved the lives of all of you," continues Norah's pleading voice. "That makes some difference, doesn't it? Will that atone for what I have done?"
The admiral hardly knows how to answer her in words, though his moistening eyes show what he thinks of the brave girl who has risked her own life to make amends for the past.
It will not be a difficult matter to deal leniently with these girls who have been misled and have now striven their hardest to make amends. Indeed, there is not much that can be said to their charge even in intention.
With Patrick Sheridan, however, the ease stands very differently. Not only has he deliberately made the attempt to destroy one of His Majesty's ships, an attempt thwarted by those who were to have been his accomplices, but now there is this other murderous outrage of attempted wholesale slaughter. But where is Sheridan? He is not to be seen. Has he succeeded in escaping in the general confusion?
What is that little group of officers over there in the corner of the room as if with the purpose of hiding something from view?
From the group emerges the fleet surgeon, Stapleton's fleet surgeon, and coming up to the admiral whispers to him to get the ladies out of the room as quickly as he can.
No charge will ever be laid against Patrick Sheridan. The justice of Fate has found him out, fulfilling that ancient doom pronounced upon the doers of evil; "they have digged a pit for others and are fallen into the midst of it themselves."
Just a tiny fragment of the steel bomb has winged its way in a flight so direct that surely the hand of Destiny must have guided it, and it lies buried in the brain of the man who devised both the infernal instrument itself and its still more infernal purpose.
Norah divines the meaning of the fleet surgeon's whisper; she has guessed what it is that lies concealed by that hedge of men.
"No need, sir, to hide it from me," she says, undaunted even by this dread blow, "I know what it is! Whatever else Patrick was, he was no coward; he was willing to die with the rest of us for what he thought right. Let me go to him. He was a brave man."
"And you are brave, too," says the admiral, "it is you who have saved all our lives!"
"At the risk of your own, Norah, my beloved," adds Stapleton.
"What did that matter?" exclaims the girl, locking her hand into that of her lover. "That was a very little thing! What value is my life?"
"It is everything in the world to me," Stapleton answers her.
Printed in Great Britain by Wyman & Sons Ltd., London and Reading