Introduction by Anthony Boucher

This book is a farce about murder.

I feel I should give you fair warning, because this sort of thing hasn't been common lately. But if your instant reaction is shocked withdrawal, please pause a moment and hear me out.

If I have one major complaint about the 300-odd mysteries that I read each year as a reviewer, it is that none of them are funny. Oh, I admit Richard S. Prather or Carter Brown can be amusing, but only in the trimmings: it's the writing that's funny, rather than the story.

And I long for the days of Craig Rice and Alice Tilton and Richard Shattuck and Jonathan Latimer when there was a wild cockeyed preposterousness in the events surrounding murder and even in murder itself — and not just in the style of the narrator.

I suppose this longing dates me. It's a 1930ish attitude. There was a fine film late in the Depression, starring Carole Lombard and written by Ben Hecht, called Nothing Sacred. It was a rowdy comedy about a (supposed) cancer victim. The "nothing-sacred" approach seems out of place today; now we take things more seriously, especially death.

But death and laughter are old friends. The medieval Totentanz is comic; and the macabre poet Thomas Lovell Beddoes christened his major tragedy Death's Jest Book. As Duncan sinks in his gore, the drunken porter rises with merry and improper quips. And the murders of real life seldom lack their element of comedy. One of the most terrible days in the annals of American murder opened on a scorching morning with a man named John Vinnicum Morse eating warmed-over mutton soup for breakfast.

I suspect that many readers — particularly the new young readers of mysteries — may relish a more generous ration of comedy-in-murder than publishers have been giving them; this series hopes to bring you, from time to time, Alan Green, Richard Shattuck and other prime practitioners of the criminally absurd,^[1] starting now with John Dickson Carr.

There's a strong comic element in many of Carr's books. It's most prevalent in the cases of Sir Henry Meri-vale, by "Carter Dickson" (and I realize with a sudden shock that it's almost ten years since H. M. has appeared in a new book); but it turns up frequently in Dr. Gideon Fell's cases, too — as in the noble drinking sequences in The Case of the Constant Suicides.

But these are intrusions, like the porter. Just once did Carr set himself to write an all-out farce (with murder as the intrusion). And, being the incomparable technician that he is, he produced something unique.

Wisely, he kept Dr. Fell out of the merry maelstrom and made him act, for once, as a pure armchair detective, in the manner of the Baroness Orczy's Old Man in the Corner. Then he threaded through his fantastic plot a careful set of clues for a faultless formal problem in detection.

Unlike almost all other comedies of terrors, The Blind Barber is a detective story, in the strictest sense. But never was a reader more bedeviled with distractions from detection. Who observes clues while he's wiping his laughter-streaming eyes?

I hope you enjoy the challenge… and the fun.

Anthony Boucher

PART ONE

1 — Strange Cargo

When the liner Queen Victoria left New York bound for Southampton and Cherbourg, it was said that two fairly well-known people were aboard, and it was whispered that a highly notorious third person was aboard also. Moreover, there was a fourth — but inconspicuous— person who will take rather a large part in this rowdy and topsy-turvy chronicle. Although he did not know it, this young man had in his luggage something more valuable than the marionettes of M. Fortinbras or the emerald elephant of Lord Sturton, which partly explains why there were puzzles and high carnival in the sedate bosom of the Queen Victoria, and monkey business not altogether according to the customary pattern.

No more dignified ship than the Queen Victoria flies the house-flag of any British line. She is what is sometimes described as a "family" boat: which means that no hilarity is permitted in her state-room after 11 p.m., and all the cross-ocean changes in time are punctiliously observed— so that the bar always closes three-quarters of an hour before you expect it, and makes you swear. Melancholy passengers sit in her glazed writing-room and seem to be composing letters to the relatives of the deceased. In the heavily-ornamented lounge there is soft conversation, not so loud as the creaking of woodwork when the green swell lifts and glitters past the portholes; and knitting is in progress before some electric lights arranged to represent a fire. There is a semblance of gaiety when a serious-minded orchestra plays in the gallery of the dining-saloon at lunch and dinner. But there was one east-bound crossing, in the spring of last year, which Commander Sir Hector Whistler will never forget. Under his professional bluff camaraderie Captain Whistler possesses the most pyrotechnic temper of any skipper who has forsaken sail for steam, and the richness of his language is the admiration of junior officers. When, therefore—

The Queen Victoria was to dock at Southampton on the afternoon of May 18th, after the weirdest voyage she had ever made. On the morning of the next day Mr. Henry Morgan was ringing the bell of Dr. Fell's new house at No. 1 Adelphi Terrace. Henry Morgan, it may be remembered, was that eminent writer of detective-stories who took his own profession with unbecoming levity, and who had made Dr. Fell's acquaintance during the case of the Eight of Swords. On this particular morning — when there was a smoky sun on the river and the quiet gardens below Adelphi Terrace — Morgan's long, bespectacled, deceptively-melancholy face wore an expression which might have been anger or amusement. But he certainly looked like a man who had been through much; as he had.

Dr. Fell boomed a welcome, greeted him warmly, and pressed upon him a tankard of beer. The doctor, his guest saw, was stouter and more red-faced than ever. He bulged out over a deep chair in the embrasure of one of the tall windows overlooking the river. The high room, with its Adam fireplace, had been set to rights since Morgan had seen it some months before, when Dr. and Mrs. Fell moved in. It was still untidy, for that was the doctor's way; but the five-thousand-odd books had been crammed somehow into their oak shelves, and the litter of junk had found place in corners and nooks. Dr. Fell has an old-fashioned weakness for junk, especially for bright pictures of the hunting-print or Dickens variety, and scenes showing people getting out of stage-coaches and holding up mugs of beer before country inns. He also likes carved porcelain tankards with pewter lids, curious book-ends, ash-trays filched from pubs, statuettes of monk or devil, and other childish things which, nevertheless — in the sombre room with the oak bookshelves, with the frayed carpet on the floor — formed a fitting background for his Gargantuan presence. He sat in his chair in the window embrasure, before a broad study table littered with books and papers; there was a grin under his bandit's moustache, and a twinkle in his eye as he blinked at his visitor over eyeglasses on a broad black ribbon. And when the cigars had been lighted Dr. Fell said:

"I may be mistaken, my boy, but I seem to detect a professional gleam in your eye." He wheezed and folded his big hands on the table. "Is there anything on your mind, hey?"

"There is," said Morgan grimly. "I have to unfold just about the rummiest story you've ever listened to, if you've got time to hear it. It's rather a long one, but I don't think it'll bore you. And — if you want any corroboration — I've taken the liberty of asking Curt Warren to come round here… "

"Heh!" said Dr. Fell, rubbing his hands delightedly. "Heh-heh-hehe! This is like old times. Of course I've got time. And bring round anybody you like. Replenish that glass again and let's have the details."

Morgan took a deep drink and a deep breath.

"First," he said, in the manner of one commencing lecture, "I would direct your attention to a group of people sitting at the captain's table on the good ship Queen Victoria. Among whom, fortunately or unfortunately, I was one.

"From the beginning I thought it would be a dull crossing; everybody seemed to be injected with virtue like embalming fluid, and half an hour after the bar had opened there were only two people in it, not counting myself. That was how I made the acquaintance of Valvick and Warren.

"Captain Thomassen Valvick was a Norwegian ex-skipper who used to command cargo and passenger boats on the North Atlantic route; now retired, and living in a cottage in Baltimore with a wife, a Ford, and nine children. He was as big as a prize-fighter, with a sandy moustache, a lot of massive gestures, and a habit of snorting through his nose before he laughed. And he was the most genial soul who ever sat up all night telling incredible yarns, which were all the funnier in his strong squarehead accent, and he never minded if you called him a liar. He had twinkling, pale-blue eyes half-shut up in a lot of wrinkles and a sandy, wrinkled face, and absolutely no sense of dignity. I could see it was going to be an uncomfortable voyage for Captain Sir Hector Whistler.

"Because, you see, Captain Valvick had known the skipper of the Queen Victoria in the old days before Whistler became the stuffed and stern professional gentleman at the head of the table. There was Whistler — growing stout, with his jaw drawn in like his shoulders, strung with gold braid like a Christmas tree — there was Whistler, his eye always on Valvick. He watched Valvick exactly as you'd watch a plate of soup at a ship's table in heavy weather; but it never kept the old squarehead quiet or muzzled his stories.

"At first it didn't matter greatly. We ran into heavy weather immediately and unexpectedly; rain-squalls, and a dizzying combination of pitch-and-roll that drove almost all the passengers to their state-rooms. Those polished lounges and saloons were deserted to the point of ghostliness; the passages creaked like wickerwork being ripped apart, the sea went past with a dip and roar that slung against the bulkhead or pitched you forward on the rise, and navigating a staircase was an adventure. Personally, I like bad weather. I like the wind tearing in when you open a door; I like the smell of white paint and polished brass, which they say is what brings the sea-sickness, when a corridor is writhing and dropping like a lift. But some people don't care for it. As a result, there were only six of us at the captain's table: Whistler, Valvick, Margaret Glenn, Warren, Dr. Kyle, and myself. The two near-celebrities we wanted to see were both represented by vacant chairs… They were old Fortinbras, who runs what has become a very swank marionette-theatre, and the Viscount Sturton. Know either one of them?"

Dr. Fell rumpled his big mop of grey-streaked hair.

"Fortinbras!" he rumbled. "Haven't I seen something about it recently in the highbrow magazines? It's a theatre somewhere in London where the marionettes are nearly life-size and as heavy as real people; he stages classic French drama or something—?"

"Right," said Morgan, nodding, "He's been doing that to amuse himself, or out of a mystic sense of preserving the Higher Arts, for the past ten or twelve years; he's got a little box of a theatre with bare benches, seating about fifty people, somewhere in Soho. Nobody ever used to go there but all the kids in the foreign colony, who were wild about it. Old Fortinbras's piece de resistance was his dramatisation of "The Song of Roland," in French blank verse. I got all this from Peggy Glenn. She says he took most of the parts himself, thundering out the noble lines from back-stage, while he and an assistant worked the figures. The marionettes' weight — nearly eight stone, each of 'em stuffed with sawdust and with all the armour, swords and trappings — was supported by a trolley on which the figures were run along, and a complicated set of wires worked their arms and legs. That was very necessary, because what they did mostly was fight; and the kids in the audience would hop up and down and cheer themselves hoarse.

"The kids, you see, never paid any attention to the lofty sentiments. They probably didn't even hear them or understand what it was all about. All they knew was that out would stagger the Emperor Charlemagne on the stage, in gold armour and a scarlet cloak, with a sword in one hand and a battle-axe in the other. After him would come bumping and reeling all the nobles of his court, with equally bright clothes and equally lethal weapons. From the other side would come in the Emperor of the Moors and his gang, armed to the eyebrows. Then all the puppets would lean against the air in various overbalanced positions while Charlemagne, with a voice of thunder said, "Pry, thee, friend, gadzooks, gramercy, what ho, sirrah!", and made a blank-verse speech lasting nearly twenty minutes. It was to the effect that the Moors had no business in France, and had better get to hell out of there — or else. The Emperor of the Moors lifted his sword and replied with a fifteen-minute address whose purport was, "Says you!" And Charlemagne, whooping out his war-cry, up and dots him one with the battle-axe.

"That was the real beginning, you see. The puppets rose from the stage and sailed at each other like fowls across a cockpit, thrashing their swords and kicking up a battle that nearly brought down the roof. Every so often one of them would be released from the trolley as dead, and would crash down on the stage and raise a fog of dust. In the fog the battle kept on whirling and clashing, and old Fortinbras rushed behind the scenes screaming himself hoarse with noble speeches, until the kids were delirious with excitement. Then down would tumble the curtain; and out would come old Fortinbras, bowing and puffing and wiping the sweat off his face, supremely happy at the cheers of the audience; and he would make a speech about the glory of France which they applauded just as loudly without knowing what he was talking about… He was a happy artist; an appreciated artist.

"Well, the thing was inevitable. Sooner or later the highbrows would 'discover' him, and his art; and somebody did. He became famous overnight, a misunderstood genius whom the British public had shamefully neglected. No kids could get into the place now; it was all top-hats and people who wanted to discuss Corneille and Racine. I gather that the old boy was rather puzzled. Anyhow, he got a thumping offer to exhibit his various classic dramas in America, and it was one long triumphal tour…"

Morgan drew a deep breath.

"All this, as I say, I got from Miss Glenn, who is — and has been long before the thing grew popular — a sort of secretary and general manager for the foggy old boy. She's some sort of relation of his on her mother's side. Her father was a country parson or schoolmaster or something; and when he died, she came to London and nearly starved until old Jules took her in. She's devilish good-looking, and seems prim and stiffish until you realise how much devilment there is in her, or until she's had a few drinks; then she's a glittering holy terror.

"Peggy Glenn, then, made the next member of our group, and was closely followed by my friend, Curtis Warren.

"You'll like Curt. He's a harum-scarum sort, the favourite nephew of a certain Great Personage in the present American Government… "

"What personage?" inquired Dr. Fell. "I don't know of any Warren who is—"

Morgan coughed.

"It's on his mother's side," he replied. "That has a good deal to do with my story; so we'll say for the moment only a Great Personage, not far from F.D. himself. This Great Personage, by the way, is the most dignified and pompous figure in politics; the glossiest Top-Hat, the neatest Trouser-Press, the prince of unsplit infinitives and undamaged etiquette… Anyhow, he pulled some wires (you're not supposed to be able to do this) and landed Curt a berth in the Consular Service. It isn't a very good berth: some God-forsaken hole out in Palestine or somewhere, but Curt was coming over for a holiday round Europe before he took over the heavy labour of stamping invoices or what-not. His hobby, by the way, is the making of amateur moving-pictures. He's wealthy, and I gather he's got not only a full-sized camera, but also a sound apparatus of the sort the news-reel men carry.

"But, speaking of Great Personages, we now come to the other celebrity aboard the Queen Victoria, also paralysed with sea-sickness. This was none other than Lord Sturton — you know — the one they call the Hermit of Jermyn Street. He'll see nobody; he has no friends; all he does is collect bits of rare jewellery… "

Dr. Fell took the pipe out of his mouth and blinked.

"Look here," he said suspiciously, "there's something I want to know before you go on. Is this by any chance the familiar chestnut about the fabulous diamond known as the Lake of Light, or some such term, which was pinched out of the left eye of an idol at Burma, and is being stalked by a sinister stranger in a turban? Because, if it is, I'll be damned if I listen to you…

Morgan wrinkled his forehead sardonically.

"No," he said. "I told you it was a rummy thing; it's much queerer than that. But I'm bound to confess that a jewel does figure in the story — it was what tangled us up and raised all the hell when the wires got crossed — but nobody ever intended it to figure at all."

"H'm!" said Dr. Fell, peering at him.

"And also I am bound to admit that the jewel got stolen—"

"By whom?"

"By me," said Morgan unexpectedly. He shifted. "Or by several of us, to be exact. I tell you it was a nightmare. The thing was an emerald elephant, a big pendant thing of no historical interest but of enormous intrinsic value. It was a curiosity, a rarity, that's why Sturton went after it. It was an open secret that he had been negotiating to buy it from one of the busted millionaires in New York. Well, he'd got it right enough; I had that from Curt Warren. The Great Personage, Curt's uncle, is a friend of Sturton's, and Curt's uncle told him all about it just before Curt sailed. Probably half the people on the boat heard the rumour. I know we were all waiting to catch a glimpse of him when he came aboard — queer, sandy old chap with ancient side-whiskers and a hanging jaw; only attendant a secretary. He popped up the gangway all swathed round in checked comforters, and cursed everybody in reach.

"Now it's a very odd thing, for a variety of reasons, that you should have mentioned the old familiar story about the fabulous jewel. Because, on the afternoon when all the trouble started — it was the late afternoon of the fourth day out, and we were to dock three days later — Peggy Glenn and Skipper Valvick and I had been discussing this emerald elephant, in the way you do when you're lying back in a deck-chair with a robe across your knees, and nothing much to think about except when the bugle will blow for tea. We discussed whether it was in Lord Sturton's possession or locked in the captain's safe, and, in either case, how you could steal it. Peggy, I know, had evolved a very complicated and ingenious plan; but I wasn't listening closely. We had all got to know one another pretty well in those four days, and we stood on very little ceremony.

"As a matter of fact," said Morgan, "I was more than half-asleep. Then—"

2 — Indiscretions of Uncle Warpus

Low along the sky there was a liquid yellow brightness, but twilight had begun to come down, and the grey sea wore changing lights on its white-caps when the Queen Victoria shouldered down against a heavy swell. The skyline tilted and rose above a boiling hiss; there was a stiff breeze along the almost deserted promenade-deck. Lying back drowsily in a deck-chair, well wrapped against the cold, Morgan was in that lethargic frame of mind when the booming sea-noises are as comfortable as a fire. He reflected that shortly lights would go on along the ship; tea would be set out in the lounge while the orchestra played. Both his companions were momentarily silent, and he glanced at them.

Margaret Glenn had dropped her book in her lap; she was lying back in the deck-chair with eyes half-closed. Her rather thin, pretty, impish face — which ordinarily wore such a deceptive look of schoolmistress primness — now seemed puzzled and disturbed. She swung shell-rimmed reading-glasses by one ear-piece, and there was a wrinkle above her hazel eyes. She was muffled in a fur coat, with a wildly-blowing batik scarf; and from under her little brown hat a tendril of black hair danced above the windy deck.

She observed: "I say, what can be keeping Curt? It's nearly tea-time, and he promised to be here long ago; then we were going to round you two up for cocktails… " She shifted, and her earnest eyes peered round at the porthole behind as though she expected to see Warren there.

"I know," said Morgan lazily. "It's that bouncing little blonde from Nashville; you know, the one who's going to Paris for the first time and says she wants to gain experiences for her soul."

Turning a wind-flushed face, the girl was about to rise to the remark when she saw his expression, and stuck out her tongue at him instead.

"Bah!" she said, without heat. "That little faker; I know her type. Dresses like a trollop and won't let a man get within a yard of her. You take my advice," said Miss Glenn, nodding and winking wisely. "You stay clear of women who want to gain deep experience for the soul. All that means is that they don't want to employ the body in doing it." She frowned. "But I say, what can have happened to Curt? I mean, even with the notorious unpunctuality of American men—"

"Ha-ha-ha!" said Captain Thomassen Valvick, with an air of inspiration. "I tell you, maybe. Maybe it is like de horse."

"What horse?" asked Morgan.

Captain Valvick uttered one of his amiable snorts and bent his big shoulders. Even though the deck was rolling and pitching in a way that made the deck-chairs slide into each other, he stood upright without difficulty. His long sandy-reddish face was etched out in wrinkles of enjoyment, and behind very small gilt-rimmed spectacles his pale-blue eyes had an almost unholy twinkle. He wrinkled them up; he snorted again, hoarsely, through his sandy moustache, pulled down his large tweed cap over one ear, and made a massive gesture that would have been as heavy as a smaller man's blow.

"Ha-ha-HA!" thundered Captain Valvick. "Ay tell you. In my country, in Norway, we haff a custom. When you wont to make a horse stop, you say, 'Whoa!' But we don't. We say, "Brubublubluoooo-bl-oooo!' "

Shaking his jowls and lifting his head like Tarzan over a fresh kill, Captain Valvick here uttered the most extraordinary noise Morgan had ever heard. It cannot be reproduced into phonetic sounds, and so loses its beauty and poignancy. It was something like the noise of water running out of a bath-tub, but rising on a triumphant note like a battle-cry, and trembling on in shadings of defective drains and broken water-pipes; as though Mr. Paul White-man (say) had built a symphony round it, and come out strongly with his horns and strings.

"Bru-bloo-bulooooluloo-buloooooo!" crowed Captain Valvick, starting low with his shakings of head and jowl, and then rearing up his head at the climax.

"Isn't that a lot of trouble?" inquired Morgan.

"Oh, no! Ay do it easy," scoffed the other, nodding complacently. "But ay was going to tell you, de first time I try it on a English-speaking 'orse, de 'orse didn't understand me. Ay tell you how it was. At dat time, when I was young, I was courting a girl who lived in Vermont, where it always snow like Norway. So ay t'ink ay take her out for a sleigh-ride, all nice and fine. I hire de best horse and sleigh dey got, I tell de girl to be ready at two o'clock in de afternoon, and I come for her. So of course I want to make a good impression on my girl, and I come dashing up de road to her house, and I see her standing on de porch, waiting for me. So ay t'ink it be fine t'ing to make de grand entrance, and ay say, 'Brubu-bluooo-bloo!' fine and strong to de 'orse so ay can turn in de gates. But he don't stop. And ay t'ink, 'Coroosh! What is wrong wit' de goddam 'orse?' " Here Captain Valvick made a dramatic gesture, "So I shout, 'Brubu-bloooo-bloooo!' and lean over de footboard and say it again. And dis time de 'orse turn its head round to look at me. But it don't stop, you bet. It keep right on going, straight past de house where de girl is standing, and it only gallop faster when I keep saying, 'Brubu-blubluoooo-bl-oooo!' And my girl open her eyes at me and look fonny, but de 'orse fly straight on up de road; and all I can do is stand up in de sleigh and keep taking off my hat and bowing to her w'ile all de time ay go farder and farder away from her; and still ay am doing dat we'en we go round a bend and ay can't see her no more… "

All this was recited with much pantomime and urging the reins of an imaginary horse. With an expiring sigh Captain Valvick shook his head in a melancholy fashion, and then twinkled benevolently.

"Ay could never get dat girl to go out again. Ha-ha-ha!"

"But I don't see the point," protested Peggy Glenn, who was regarding him in some perplexity. "How is that like Curt Warren?"

"Ay don't know," admitted the other, scratching his head. "Ay yust wanted to tell de story, ay guess… Maybe he is sea-sick, eh? Ha-ha-ha! Ah! Dat remind me. Haff ay ever told you de story about de mutiny ay 'ave when de cook always eat all de peas out of de soup and—"

"Sea-sick?" the girl exclaimed indignantly. "Bosh! At least — poor old fellow, I hope not. My uncle is having a terrible time of it, and he's suffering worse because he's promised to give a performance of his marionettes at the ship's concert… Do you think we'd better go and see what's wrong with Curt?"

She paused as a white-coated steward struggled out of a door near by and peered round in the darkening light. Morgan recognised him as his own cabin steward — a cheerful-faced young man with flat black hair and a long jaw. He had, now, a rather conspiratorial manner. Sliding down the gusty deck, he beckoned towards Morgan and raised his voice above the crash and hiss of water.

"Sir," he said, "it's Mr. Warren, sir. 'Is compliments, and 'e'd like to see you. And 'is friends too… "

Peggy Glenn sat up. "There's nothing wrong, is there? Where is he? What's the matter?"

The steward looked dubious, and then reassuring, "Oh no, miss! Nothing wrong. Only I think somebody's 'it him."

"What?"

"Hin the eye, miss. And on the back of th 'ead. But 'e's not a bit upset, miss, not 'im. I left 'im sitting on the floor in the cabin," said the steward, rather admiringly, "with a towel to 'is 'ead and a piece of movie film in 'is 'and, swearing something 'andsome. And 'e'd taken a nasty knock, miss; that's a fact."

They stared at each other, and then they all hurried after the steward. Captain Valvick, puffing and snorting through his moustache, threatened dire things. Tearing open one of the doors, they were kicked by its recoil in the wind into the warm, paint-and-rubbery odour of the corridor. Warren's cabin, a large double which he occupied alone, was an outside one on C deck, starboard side. They descended heaving stairs, struck off past the gloomy staircase to the dining-room, and knocked at the door of C 91.

Mr. Curtis G. Warren's ordinarily lazy and good-humoured face was now malevolent. The odour of recent profanity hung about him like garlic. Round his head a wet towel had been wound like a turban; there was a slight cut of somebody's knuckles. Mr. Warren's greenish eyes regarded them bitterly out of a lean, newly-scrubbed face; his hair, over the bandage, stuck up like a goblin's; and in his hand he had a strip of what resembled motion-picture film with perforations for sound, torn at one end. He sat on the edge of his berth, faintly visible in the yellowish twilight through the porthole, and the whole cabin was wildly disarranged.

"Come in," said Mr. Warren. Then he exploded. "When I catch," he announced, drawing a deep breath like one who begins an oration, and spacing his words carefully— "when I catch the white-livered, greenly empurpled so-and-so who tried to get away with this — when I get one look at the ugly mug of the lascivious-habited son of a bachelor who runs around beaning people with a blackjack—"

Peggy Glenn wailed, "Curt!" and rushed over to examine his head, which she turned to one side and the other as though she were looking behind his ears. Warren broke off and said, "Ow!"

"But, my dear, what happened?" the girl demanded. "Oh, why do you let things like this happen? Are you hurt?"

"Baby," said Warren in a tone of dignity, "I can tell you that it is not alone my dignity which has suffered. By the time they have finished stitching up my head, I shall probably resemble a baseball. As to my deliberately encouraging all this to happen… Boys," he said, appealing moodily to Morgan and the captain, "I need help. I'm in a jam, and that's no lie."

"Ha!" growled Valvick, rubbing a large hand down across his moustache. "You yust tell me who smack you, eh? Ha! Den ay take him and—"

"I don't know who did it. That's the point."

"But why…?" asked Morgan, who was surveying the litter in the cabin; and the other grinned sourly.

"This, old son," Warren told him, "is right in your line. Do you know if there are any international crooks on board? The Prince or Princess Somebody kind, who always hang out at Monte Carlo? Because an important State document has been pinched… No, I'm not kidding. I didn't know I had the damned thing; never occurred to me; I thought it had been destroyed… I tell you I'm in bad trouble, and it's not funny. Sit down somewhere and I'll tell you about it."

"You go straight to the doctor!" Peggy Glenn said, warmly. "If you think I'm going to have you laid up with amnesia or something—"

"Baby, listen," the other begged, with a sort of wild patience; "you don't seem to get it yet. This is dynamite. It's — well, it's like one of Hank's spy stories, only it's something new along that line, now that I come to think of it., Look here. You see this film?"

Ho handed it to Morgan, who held it up for examination against the fading light through the porthole. The pictures were all of a portly, white-haired gentleman in evening clothes, who had one fist lifted as though making a speech and whose mouth was split wide as though it were B vary exploitive speech. There was, moreover, a very curious, bleary look about the dignified person; his tie was skewered under one ear, and over his head and shoulders had been sprinkled what Morgan at first presumed to be snow. It was, in fact, confetti.

And the face was vaguely familiar. Morgan stared at it for some time before he realised that it was none other than a certain Great Personage, the most pompous starched-shirt of the Administration, the potent rain-maker and high priest of quackdoodle. His cheerful, soothing voice over the radio had inspired millions of Americans with dreams of a fresh, effulgent era of national prosperity in which there should be instalment plans without ever any payments demanded, and similar American conceptions of the millennium. His dignity, his scholarship, his courtly manners—

"Yes, you're right," Warren said wryly. "It's my uncle. Now I'll tell you about it… and don't laugh, because it's absolutely serious.

"He's a very good fellow, Uncle Warpus is; you've got to understand that. He got into this position through the ordinary, human behaviour that might happen to anybody, but others mightn't think so. All politicians ought to have a chance every once in a while to blow off steam. Otherwise they're apt to go mad and chew off an ambassador's ear, or something. With the whole country in a mix-up, and everything going wrong, and wooden-heads trying to block every reasonable measure, there are times when they explode. Especially if they're in congenial company and have a social highball or two.

"Well — my hobby is the taking of amateur moving-pictures, with, Lord.help me, sound. So about a week before I was to sail I was due to visit Uncle Warpus in Washington for a good-by call." Warren put his chin in his hands and looked sardonically on the others, who had moved backwards to find seats. "I couldn't take my movie apparatus abroad with me; it was much too elaborate. Uncle Warpus suggested that I should leave it with him. He was interested in such things; he thought he might get some pleasure in tinkering with it, and I should show him how to work everything…

"On the first night I got there," pursued Warren, taking a deep breath, "there was a very large, very dignified party at Uncle Warpus's. But he and a few of his Cabinet and senatorial cronies had sneaked away from the dancing; they were upstairs in the library, playing poker and drinking whisky. When I arrived they thought it would be an excellent idea if I arranged my apparatus, and we took a few friendly talking-pictures there in the library. It took me some time, with the assistance of the butler, to get it all arranged. Meanwhile, they were having a few friendly drinks. Some of 'em were a good deal the strong, silent, rough-diamond administrators from the prairies; and even Uncle Warpus was relaxing considerably."

Warren blinked with reminiscent pleasure at the ceiling.

"It all began with much seriousness and formality. The butler was camera man, and I recorded the sound. First the Honourable William T. Pinkis recited Lincoln's Gettysburg Address. That was all right. Then the Honourable Secretary of Interstate Agriculture did the dagger scene from Macbeth, a very powerful piece of acting, with a bottle Of gin as the dagger. One thing led to another. Senator Borax sang 'Annie Laurie,' and then they got up a quartet to render 'Where is my Wandering Boy Tonight?' and 'Put on Your Old Grey Bonnet.'…"

Sitting back in the berth with her back against the wall, Peggy Olenn was regarding him with a shocked expression. Her pink lips were open, her eyebrows raised.

"Oh, I say!" she protested. "Curt, you're pulling our legs. I mean to say, just fancy our House of Commons… "

Warren raised his hand fervently. "Baby, as Heaven is my witness, that is precisely—" He broke off to scowl as Morgan began laughing. "I tell you, Hank, this is serious!"

"I know it," agreed Morgan, growing thoughtful. "I think I begin to see what's coming. Go on."

"Ay t'ank dey did right," said Captain Valvick, nodding vigorously and approvingly. "Ay haff always wanted to try one of dem t'ings too. Den ay giff my imitation of de two cargo-boats in de fog. It is very good, dat one. I show you. Ha-ha-ha!"

Warren brooded.

"Well, as I say, one little thing led to another. The signal for the fireworks was when one Cabinet member, who had been chuckling to himself for some time, recounted a spirited story about the travelling saleman and the farmer's daughter. And then came the highlight of the whole evening. My uncle Warpus had been sitting by himself — you could almost see his mind going round click-click — click-click —and he was weighed down by a sense of injustice. He said he was going to make a speech. He did. He got in front of the microphone, cleared his throat, squared his shoulders, and then the cataract came down at Lodore.

"In some ways," said Warren, rather admiringly, "it was the funniest thing I ever heard. Uncle Warpus had had to repress his sense of humour for some time. But I happened to know of his talent for making burlesque political speeches… Wow! What he did was to give his free, ornamental, and uncensored opinion of the ways of government, the people in the government, and everything connected with it. Then he went on to discuss foreign policy and armaments. He addressed the heads of Germany, Italy, and France, explaining exactly what he thought of their parentage and alleged social pastimes, and indicating where they could thrust their battleships with the greatest possible effect… " Warren wiped his forehead rather dazedly. "You see, it was all done in the form of a burlesque flag-waving speech, with plenty of weird references to Washington and Jefferson and the faith of the fathers… Well, the other eminent soaks caught on and were cheering and applauding. Senator Borax got hold of a little American flag, and every time Uncle Warpus made a particularly telling point, Senator Borax would stick his head out in front of the camera, and wave the flag for a second, and say, 'Hooray!'… Boys, it was hair-raising. As an oratorical effort I have never heard it surpassed. But I know two or three newspapers in New York that would give a cool million dollars for sixty feet of that film.

Peggy Glenn, struggling between laughter and incredulity, sat forward, with her bright hazel eyes fixed on him; she seemed annoyed. "But I tell you," she protested again, "it's absurd! It — it isn't nice, you know… "

"You're telling me," said Warren, grimly.

"… and all those awfully nice high-minded people; it's disgusting! You can't really tell me!… Oh, it's absurd! I don't believe it."

"Baby," said Warren gently, "that's because you're British. You don't understand American character. It's not in the least unreasonable; it's simply one of those scandals that sometimes happen and have to be hushed up somehow. Only this one is a scandal of such enormous, dizzying proportions that — Look here. We'll say nothing of the explosion it would cause at home. It would ruin Uncle Warpus, and a lot of others with him. But can you imagine the effect of those pronouncements on, say, certain dignitaries in Italy and Germany? They wouldn't see anything funny about it in the least. If they didn't jump up and down, tearing out handfuls of hair, and rush out and declare war immediately, it would be because somebody had the forethought to sit on their heads… Whoosh! T.N.T.? T.N.T.'s as mild as a firecracker compared with it."

It was growing dark in the cabin. Heavy clouds had massed up; there was a tremble through the ship above the dull beat of her screws, and a deeper thunder and swish of water as she pitched. Glasses and water-bottle were rattling in the rack above the washstand. Morgan reached up to switch on the light. He said:

"And someone stole it from you?"

"Half* of it, yes… Let me tell you what happened.

"The morning after that little carnival, Uncle Warpus woke up with a realisation of what he'd done. He came rushing into my room, and it appears he'd been bombarded with phone-calls from other offenders since seven o'clock. Fortunately, I was able to reassure him — as I thought, anyhow. What with other difficulties, I'd taken in all only two reels. Each reel was packed into a container like this… "

Reaching down under his berth, Warren pulled out a large oblong box, bound in steel, with a handle like a suitcase. It was unlocked, and he opened the snap-catch. Packed inside were a number of flat circular tins measuring about ten inches in diameter painted black, and scrawled with cryptic markings in white chalk. One of these had its lid off. Inside had been jammed a tangled and disarranged spool of film from which a good length seemed to have been torn off.

Warren tapped the tin. "I was taking some of my better efforts with me," he explained. "I've got a little projector, and I thought they might amuse people on the other side…

"On the night of Uncle Warpus's eloquence, I was a little tight myself. The packing up I left to the butler, and I showed him how to do the marking. What must have happened — I can see it now — was that he got the notations mixed. I carefully destroyed two reels that I thought were the right ones. But, like an imbecile" — Warren got out a pack of cigarettes and stuck one askew into his mouth— "like an imbecile, I only examined one of the reels with any care. So I destroyed the Gettysburg Address, the Dagger Scene, and the singing of 'Annie Laurie.' But the rest of it… well, I can figure it now. What I got rid of were some swell shots of the Bronx Park Zoo.'

"And the rest of it?"

Warren pointed to the floor.

"In my luggage, without my knowing it. Never a suspicion, you see, until this afternoon. Gaa! what a situation. Well, you see, I had an urgent radiogram I had to send off to somebody at home—"

"Oh?" said Miss Glenn, sitting up and eyeing him suspiciously.

"Yes. To my old man. So I went up to the wireless-room. The operator said he'd just received a message for me. He also said, 'This looks like code. Will you check it over and make sure it's all right?' Code. Ho-ho! I glanced over it, and it seemed so queer that I read it aloud. You must remember, what with the excitement of going away and things on board here and all, I'd forgotten that little performance entirely. Besides, the radiogram was unsigned; I suppose Uncle Warpus didn't dare…" Warren shook his head sadly, a weird turbaned figure with the cigarette hanging from one corner of his mouth and his face scrubbed like a schoolboy's. Then he took the cable from his pocket. "It said, ' found traces in sweeping out. Hiller —' that's his butler; old family retainer; wouldn't squeal if Uncle Warpus pinched the silver out of the White House—' Hiller nervous. They look like bears. Is this real reel. Urgent no hitch in sarcasm effaced. Advise about bears.'"

"Eh?" demanded Captain Valvick, who was puffing slowly.

"That's the closest he could take a chance on coming to it," Warren explained. "Bears in the zoo. But it's not the sort of thing that makes much sense when it's sprung on you unexpectedly. I argued it out with the wireless operator, and it wasn't until ten minutes later that it struck me — how the devil was I to know Uncle Warpus had sent it? So I couldn't connect up the words; then suddenly it hit me.

"Well, I rushed down here to my cabin. It was getting dark, and besides, the curtain was drawn over the porthole… but there was somebody in here."

"And of course," said Morgan, "you didn't see who it was?"

"When I get that low-down" — snarled Warren, going off at a tangent and glaring murderously at the waterbottle— "when I find — no, damn it! All I knew was that it was a man. He had my film-box over in the corner, half the tins with their lids off (I found this later) and had the right roll in his hands. I dived for him, and he let go a hard one at my face. When I grabbed him I grabbed a piece of the film. He cracked out again — there isn't much space in here, and the boat was pitching pretty heavily — then we staggered over against the washstand while I tried to slam him against the wall. I didn't dare let go of the film. The next thing I knew the whole cabin went up like a flashlight powder; that was his blackjack on the back of my head. I didn't quite lose consciousness, but the place was going round in sparks; I slugged him again, and I was bent over the part of the film I had. Then he yanked the door open and got out somehow. I must have been knocked out for a few minutes then. When I came to, I rang for the steward, sloshed some water on my head, and discovered—" With his foot Warren raised the tangle of film on the floor.

"But didn't you see him?" asked the girl, in her fluttering concern, again taking hold of his head and causing an agonised "Ow!" She jumped. "I mean, old boy, that, after all, you were fighting with him…"

"No, I didn't see him, I tell you! It might have been anybody… But the question is, what's to be done? I'm appealing to you for help. We've got to get that piece of film back. He got — maybe fifty feet of it. And that's as dangerous as though he'd got all of it."

3 — Trap for a Film Thief

"Well," Morgan observed thoughtfully, "I admit this is the rummiest kind of secret-service mission that a self-respecting hero was ever called on to undertake. It rouses my professional instincts."

He felt a glow of pleasurable excitement. Here was he, an eminent writer of detective stories, involved in one of those complicated spy plots to recover a stolen document and preserve the honour of a great Personage. It was the sort of thing that would have been nuts to Mr. Oppenheim; and, Morgan reflected, he himself had often used the background of a luxurious ocean liner, sweeping its lighted decks through waters floored with stars — full of monocled crooks sipping champagne; of pale, long-necked Ladies with a Purpose who are not interested in love-making; and of dirty work in general. (The women in a secret-service story seldom are interested in love-making; that is the trouble with it.) Although the Queen Victoria was scarcely the boat for such goings-on, Morgan considered the idea and found it good. Outside, it had begun to rain. The liner was bumping like a tub against the crash of the swell, and Morgan lurched a little as he stalked up and down the narrow cabin, revolving plans, pushing his glasses up and down his nose, becoming each second more excited with the prospect.

"Well?" demanded Peggy Glenn. "Say something, Hank! Of course we help him, don't we?"

She still seemed hurt by the behaviour of the eminent soaks; but her protective instincts had been roused and her small jaw was very square. She had even put on her shell-rimmed reading-glasses, which lent a look of unwonted sombreness (or flippant make-believe, if you like) to the thin face. And she had removed her hat, to show a mop of black bobbed hair. Sitting with one leg curled under her, she regarded Morgan almost fiercely. He said:

"My girl, I wouldn't miss it for — well, for a good deal. Ha! It is obvious,' he continued, with relish, and hoped it was true, "that there is aboard a wily and clever international crook who is determined to secure that film for purposes of his own. Very good. We therefore form a Defensive Alliance… "

"Thanks," said Warren, in some relief. "God knows I need help and — you see, you were the only people I could trust. Well, then?"

"Right. You and I, Curt, will be the Brains. Peggy will be the Siren, if we need one. Captain Valvick will be the Brawn—"

"Hah!" snorted the captain, nodding vigorously and lifting his shoulders with approval. He twinkled down on them, and raised his arm with terrific gusto. " 'For God! For de cause! For de Church! For de laws,' " he thundered unexpectedly. " 'For Charles, King of England, and Rupert off de Rhine!' Ha-ha-ha."

"What the devil's that?" demanded Morgan.

"Ay dunno yust what it mean," admitted the captain, blinking on them rather sheepishly. "Ay read it in a book once, and ay t'ink it iss fine. If ay ever get stirred up in de heart — hoooo-o! — Ay say it." He shook his head. "But ay got to be careful wit' de books. When ay finish reading one, ay got to be careful to write its name down so I don't forget and go back and read it all over again."

He looked on them with great amiability, rubbing his nose, and inquired, "But what iss dere you want me to do?"

"First," said Morgan, "it's agreed that you don't want official steps taken, Curt? I mean, you could tell Captain Whistler—?"

"Lord, no!" the other said violently. "I can't do that, don't you see? If we get this back at all, it's got to be under the strictest cover. And that's where it's going to be difficult. Out of the whole passenger-list of this boat, how are we going to pick out the person who might want to steal the thing? Besides, how did the fellow know I had that film, if I didn't know it myself?"

Morgan reflected. "That wireless message—" he said, and stopped. "Look here, you said you read it aloud, And it was only a very short time afterwards that the chap tried to burgle this cabin. It seems too much to be a coincidence… Was there anybody who might have overheard you?"

The other made scoffing noises. In the pure absorption of the debate he had absent-mindedly fished out a bottle of whisky from one of his suit-cases. "Bunk!" said Warren. "Suppose there were a crook of some description aboard. What would that cock-eyed message mean to him? It took some time for me to figure it out."

"All right. All right, then! It's got to mean this. The thief was somebody who already knew about the film; that is, that there had been one made… That's possible, isn't it?"

Warren hesitated, knocking his knuckles against his turbaned forehead.

"Ye-es, I suppose it is," he admitted. "There were all sorts of rumours afloat next day; you know how it is. But we were in the library with the door locked, and naturally it can't be any of the people who were in the game… I told you there was a reception downstairs, but how anybody down there could have known—"

"Well, evidently somebody did know," Morgan argued. "And it's at a crush of a reception like that, at the home of some big pot, where you'd expect to find a specimen of the gentry we're looking for… Put it this way, just for a starter." He meditated, pulling at his ear-lobe. "The thief — we'll call him, say, Film-Flam — gets wind of your important document. But he thinks it's been destroyed and abandons any idea of pinching it. Still, he is travelling abroad on the Queen Victoria—"

"Why?" inquired Miss Glenn practically.

"How should I know?" Morgan demanded, with some asperity. His imagination had been working on opulent ballrooms full of tiaras and red shirt-ribbons; and sinister whiskery strangers smoking cigarettes round the corners of pillars. "Maybe it was accident, maybe Film-Flam is a professional diplomatic crook who dashes about from capital to capital and hopes for the best. Anyway, you've got to admit it was somebody who'd been in Washington and heard all about the indiscretion… Righto, then. He's abandoned the idea, but all the same he happens to be travelling aboard the same boat as Curt. If you looked at the passenger-list, Curt, would you recognise the name of anybody who'd been at your uncle's house that night?"

Warren shook his head.

"There were millions of 'em and I didn't know anybody. No, that won't work… But you mean this. You mean that this bird (after abandoning the idea) overhears that cable in the wireless-room, tumbles to it before I do, and takes a long chance on stealing it before I've got time to realise what I'm carrying?"

"He'd have to work fast, man. Otherwise, as soon as you knew you'd chuck it overboard. And here's another thing," crowed Morgan, stabbing his finger into his palm as the idea grew on him. "The field of search isn't as wide as you'd think at first. Again this is only a theory, but look here! — isn't this chap pretty sure to be somebody who has scraped an acquaintance with you already? I mean, if I were an international crook, even though I didn't think you were carrying that roll of film, I'm jolly certain I'd try to get into your good graces. As Uncle Warpus's favourite nephew, you'd be a valuable person to make friends with… Doesn't that sound reasonable?"

By this time they were all eagerly engrossed, in the business, floundering as they tried to stand or sit in the creaking cabin, and each playing with theories. Warren, who had produced paper cups and was pouring out drinks, stopped. He handed a cup carefully to Peggy Glenn before he spoke. Then he said:

"It's a funny thing you should say that…

"Well?"

"Aside from yourselves, I know very few people aboard this tub. The weather's been too bad, for one thing. But it's funny." He blew into a folding paper cup savagely to open it; then he looked up. "There were — let's see — there were five people in the wireless-room at the time my cable came through, aside from the operator and myself. There was

Captain Whistler, who was having some kind of whispered row with the operator; he walked out in a turkey-cock rage. There was a girl I hadn't seen before. Wash out the captain and that girl, and there were three men. One of 'em I didn't know; didn't notice him at all… But the last two are the only other people I do know. One was that fellow Woodcock, the travelling salesman for the bug-powder firm; and the other was Dr. Kyle, who sits at our table."

There was a hoot of derision from Peggy Glenn at the mention of the latter name. Even Morgan, whose profession of necessity made him doubly suspicious of any respectable person, inclined to agree with her. They had both heard of Dr. Kyle. He was one of the more resounding names in Harley Street — a noted brain specialist who had figured as alienist in several murder trials. Morgan remembered him at the table — a tall, lean, rather sardonic Scot, slovenly except for his well-brushed hair, with shrewd eyes under ragged brows whisking upwards at the outer corner, and two deep furrows running down his cheeks. To imagine this distinguished loony-doctor in the role of Film-Flam strained even Morgan's credulity. If he were given a choice in crooks, he would have preferred to fasten on the bouncing Mr. Charles Woodcock, commercial traveller for "Swat," the instant eradicator of insects. But, distinctly, Dr. Kyle must be counted out.

However, when he pointed out this difficulty to Warren, it seemed to make the American all the more certain Dr. Kyle was the culprit.

"Absolutely!" said Warren excitedly. "It's always people like that. Besides — suppose somebody's impersonating him? There's an idea for you! What better disguise would there be for an international crook than as the respectable head of a bughouse? Say, if we were to tax him with it— jump on him suddenly, you see—"

"You want to be shoved in the psychopathic ward?" demanded Morgan. "No, we can't do that; not with Kyle. Besides, it's nonsense! We've got to rule out Kyle, and get a good working plan… "

Captain Valvick shifted from one foot to the other.

"Excuse me," he suggested, with a sort of thunderous timidity, and beamed on them. "Ay got a idea, ay half."

"H'm!" said Morgan dubiously.

"Ay tell you," pursued the captain, peering round to be sure they were not overheard, "dis feller dat bat you one, he hass got only half de film, eh? Well, den, ay tell you what. He got only half de film; den maybe he iss going to come back, eh? So we stand watch and when he come back we say, 'Hey—!' "

"Yes, I know," interrupted Warren, with a gloomy air. "I'd thought of that, too, but it won't work. That's what always happens in the stories; but you can bet your last shirt this bird is too cagy for that. He knows I'm wise to him, he knows I'll take good care of that film; if I don't pitch the rest of it overboard right away. No, no. He won't take any risk like that."

For some time Peggy Glenn had been sitting silent, her chin cupped in her hands, studying the matter. Her glossy hair was tousled across her forehead, and now she suddenly looked up with such an expression of diabolical brightness and practicality that she almost crowed.

"You men," she said, rather scornfully—"you men— just messing about, that's all! Now you let me tell you what to do, and you'll have your film back to-night. Yes, I mean it. I fancy I've got an idea" — she struggled to conceal the pleasure that was making her tilt up her chin and grow as excited as Warren—"and it's a ripping idea! Whee! Listen. In a way, Captain Valvick is right. We've got to trap this chap into coming back for the rest of the film… "

Warren made a weary gesture, but she frowned him down.

"Will you listen to me? I tell you we can do it. Because why? Because we are the only people on the whole boat— we four — who know Curt was attacked and why he was attacked. Very well. We give it out publicly that we came in here and found Curt lying on the floor unconscious, dead to the world with a bad scalp wound. We have no suspicions that there was an attack or theft. We don't know how it happened; we suppose that he must have come in here drunk or something, and staggered about and finally fell and bashed himself over the head—"

Warren raised his eyebrows.

"Baby," he said with dignity, "it is not that I myself have any objection to the charming picture you have just described. But I only want to remind you that I am a member of the American Diplomatic Service. The Diplomatic Service, Baby. The rules laid down for the strictness of my behaviour would cause annoyance among the seraphim and start a riot in a waxworks. I dislike offering suggestions, but why don't you say that in the course of my customary morning opium debauch I went cuckoo and batted my head against the wall? My chief would like that fine."

"Oh, all right," she conceded primly, "if you must keep to your nasty old rules. Then — say you were ill or sea-sick; anyway, that it was an accident. Well, that you haven't recovered consciousness… "

Morgan whistled. "I begin to see this. Curt, I believe the wench has got something!"

"Yes," said Warren, "and in another minute I'm going to tell you what it is. Go on, Baby. Here, have another drink. After I am picked up insensible, what then?"

"Then," the girl continued, beaming excitedly, "we tell everybody you were taken to the infirmary, where you are still in a stupor. You see, if we tell it at the table it will go all about the boat. It's supposed to be an accident, so there'll be no investigation. In the meantime here will be the cabin, open and unguarded. Don't you think this crook will see his opportunity? Of course he will. He'll come back straightaway — and there you are."

She tossed up her head, her hazel eyes shining and her lower lip folded over the upper in defiant triumph. There was a silence.

"By God! it's good!" exploded Morgan, driving his fist into his palm. Even Warren was impressed; he sat like a thoughtful Indian prophet, staring at the paper cup, while Captain Valvick chuckled and Peggy said: "Hoo!" in a pleased tone. "But wait a bit," Morgan added, "what about the steward, the one you sent to tell us? He knows."

"Stewards never talk," the girl said wisely; "they know too much as it is. Make it certain with a good tip. Then you can go ahead… By the way, Curt, is the cabin next to this one vacant? That's where you want to hide and wait for him, if it is."

"Why not in here?"

"He'd see you straightaway, you silly! And you've got to catch him with the goods. It's no good saying, 'Cough up, you villain!' unless you can catch him dead to rights. He'd only say he'd got into the wrong cabin by mistake, and then where are you? He must have the film on his person— then," she added judicially, "I dare say you may land him one, dear, if you like."

"Ah-hh!" Warren breathed, and dreamily fingered a large fist. "Yes, Baby, the next cabin is unoccupied, as it happens. Tell you what. I'll install myself in there, and get the steward to bring me some dinner. Captain Valvick can keep watch with me. You two go down to dinner and spread the glad news. Then you can join us afterwards. We'll probably have a long wait. The ingredients for cocktails might not be out of place… "

"But we mustn't get drunk," said Miss Glenn, as though she were uttering a careful definition of terms.

"Oh, no!" said Warren vigorously. "Not at all. Of course not. Ha-ha! The idea is absurd. But look here, I wish we had more dope on our mysterious crook. If we could only find out something about him… " He frowned. "Wait a minute. I've got an idea. Captain, you know Captain Whistler pretty well, don't you?"

"Dat old barnacle?" inquired the other. "Coroo! Ay know him when he wass not so stuck up, you bet. He got a hawful temper, I tell you. De first time ay know him wass in Naples, when he come in wid de cargo-boat where de chief mate hass de religious mania and go crazy and t'ink he is Yesus." The breath whistled through Valvick's large moustache; his sandy eyebrows rose and he illustrated the drama. "De chief mate walk up on de bridge and fold his arms and say, 'Ay am Yesus.' De captain say, 'You are not Yesus.' De chief mate say, 'Ay am Yesus and you are Pontius Pilate,' and smack —he haul off and bust

Captain Whistler in de yaw, and dey got to put 'im in irons. Iss a fact. Ay t'ank of it w'en you say Dr. Kyle iss a mad doctor, because Captain Whistler don' like de people which go nutty. Anudder time—'

"Listen, old man," begged Warren. "Spare the Odyssey for a minute. If there were any big international crook aboard, or there were a rumour of it, Captain Whistler would be the one to know about it, wouldn't he? They'd wireless him, wouldn't they, even if he kept it under cover?"

Valvick massively lifted his head sideways and scratched his cheek.

"Ay dunno. It depend on wedder dey know it at de port. Maybe. You want me to hask him?"

"Well — not exactly. Sort of sound him out, you see? Don't let on you know anything. You might do it before dinner; and then we'd be all ready to keep watch."

The other nodded vigorously, and Warren looked at his watch. "Nearly time for the bugle to dress for dinner. We're all set, then?"

There was an enthusiastic chorus in the affirmative. For all these people had within them the true, glorious harebrained spirit of adventure; and Warren poured them a quick one as a toast to the new gamble as lights came on through the vibrating sleekness of white decks, and rain-squalls spattered the portholes, and the voice of a bugle began to brattle past state-room doors, and the stately Queen Victoria shouldered on towards the wild business that was to be.

4 — A Matter of Skulls

"But didn't you know it?" inquired Peggy Glenn, in her sweetest and most surprised tone.

Her voice was clear in the almost deserted dining-saloon, its lights winking against polished rosewood and its vast height wrenched with ghostly cracklings. The roof writhed in the fashion of tottering blocks; Morgan was not at all sure about that glass dome. To eat (or do nearly anything else) was a sporting performance in which you must look sharp for sudden rushes of the crockery from any corner of the table, from the snake-like dart of the water-glass to the majestic ground-swell of the gravy. Morgan felt like a nervous juggler. The dining-saloon would slowly surge up with an incredible balloon swell, climb higher, tilt, and plunge down from its height with a long-drawn roar of water that dislodged stewards from their pillars and made diners — clutching their chairs — feel a sudden dizziness in the pit of the stomach.

There were possibly a dozen people to stem a clattering avalanche of dishes and silver. In general, they were eating away grimly but cautiously, while a gallant orchestra attempted to play "The Student Prince." But none of this bothered Peggy Glenn. Suave in black velvet, with her black bobbed hair done into some sort of trick wave that lent a hoydenish air to her thin face, she sat at Captain Whistler's elbow and regarded him with naive surprise.

"But didn't you know it?" she repeated. "Of course Curtis can't help it, poor boy. It runs in the family, sort of. I mean, I shouldn't exactly call it insanity, of course… "

Morgan choked on a bit of fish and peered sideways at her. She appealed to him.

"I say, Hank, what was the name of that uncle of his Curt was telling us about? I mean the one who had the fits-and-gibbers or something in his sleep, or maybe it was claustrophobia, and used to give a terrific spring out of bed because he thought he was being strangled?"

Captain Whistler laid down his knife and fork. He had obviously been in an ill temper when he came to the table; but lie had concealed it under gruff amiability and absent-minded smiles. Wheeling round his chair he had announced that he must return to the bridge and could stay only for one course or two. Captain Whistler was stout and short of breath. He had protruding eyes of a pale brown colour, something like the hue of pickled onions, a ruddy face, and a large loose mouth which was always booming a professional and paternal "Ha-ha" to nervous old ladies. His gold braid blazed, and his short white hair stood up like the foam on a beer-glass.

Now he addressed Peggy with coy heartiness. "Come, come," he said in his best nursery manner, "and what is the little lady telling us now? Eh, my dear? Something about an accident to a friend of yours?"

"A dreadful accident," she assured him, looking round to make sure the dining-room would overhear. The only people at their own table were the captain, Dr. Kyle, Morgan, and herself; so she wanted to make sure. She described Warren's being picked up unconscious, with a wealth of graphic detail. "But, of course, poor boy, he isn't responsible for his actions when he gets into those fits… "

Captain Whistler looked concerned, and then rather alarmed. His fleshy face grew redder.

"Ah, hurrumph!" he said, clearing his throat. "Dear me! Dear me!" — it speaks much for the captain's social polish that he could sometimes force himself to say "Dear me!" — "Bad, bad, Miss Glenn! But there's nothing — ah — seriously wrong with him, is there?" He peered at her in gruff anxiety. "Is it maybe something in Dr. Kyle's line now?"

"Well, of course, I shouldn't like to say—"

"Have you known cases of the kind, Doctor?"

Kyle was not a man of many words. He was methodically disposing of grilled sole — a lean, long-faced figure with a bulging shirt-front, and traces of a thin smile had pulled down the furrows in his cheeks. He glanced at Peggy from under grizzled eyebrows, and then at Morgan. Morgan received the impression that he believed in Warren's lurid ailment about as much as he believed in the Loch Ness monster.

"Oh, yes," he replied in his heavy, meditative voice. "Not unknown. I've met it before." He looked hard at Peggy. "A mild case of legensis-pullibus, I should think. Patient'll recover."

In a harassed way Captain Whistler wiped his mouth with his napkin.

"But — ah — why wasn't I told of this?" he demanded. "I'm master here, and it's my right to be told of things like this… "

"I did tell you, Captain!" Peggy protested indignantly. "I've been sitting here the whole time telling you; I told you three times over before you understood. I say, what is worrying you?"

"Eh?" said the captain, jumping a little. "Worrying me? Rubbish, my dear! Rubbish! Ha-ha!"

"I mean, I hope we're not going to hit an iceberg or anything. That would be dreadful!" She regarded him with wide hazel eyes. "And, you know, they do say the captain of the Gigantic was drunk the night they hit the whale, and—"

"I am not drunk, madam," said Captain Whistler, his voice taking on a slight roar. "And I am not worried either. Rubbish!"

She seemed to have an inspiration. "Then I know what it is, poor dear! Of course. You're worried about poor Lord Sturton and all those valuable emeralds he's got with him… " Commiseratingly she looked at the chair which a very sea-sick peer had not yet occupied on the voyage. "And I don't blame you. I say, Hank, just fancy. Suppose there were a notorious criminal aboard — just suppose it, I mean — and this criminal had decided to pinch Lord Sturton's jewels. Wouldn't it be thrilling? Only not for poor Captain Whistler, of course; because he'd be responsible, wouldn't he?"

Under the table Morgan administered an unmannerly kick towards the shins of his beaming partner. His hps framed "Easy on!" But undoubtedly a number of diners had pricked up their ears.

"My dear young lady," said the captain, in an agitated voice, "for Go — ah — please kindly get that nonsense out of your pretty little head. Ha-ha! You'll alarm my passengers, you know; and I can't have that, can I? ( Lower your voice, will you?) The idea's fantastic. Come, now!"

She was appealing. "Oh dear, have I said anything I shouldn't? I mean, I was only supposing, to sort of relieve the monotony; because it has been rather dull, you know, and there hasn't been anything really funny, dear Captain Whistler, since I saw you playing handball on the boat-deck. But if there were a notorious criminal on board, it would be exciting. And it might be anybody. It might be Hank. Or it might be Dr. Kyle — mightn't it?"

"Verra likely," agreed Dr. Kyle composedly, and went on dissecting fish.

"But if I did have anything on my mind," declared the captain, in heavy joviality, "it would be about your uncle, Miss Glenn. He's promised to give us a full-dress performance of his marionettes at the ship's concert. And that's to-morrow night, my dear. He mustn't be ill for that, you know. He and his assistant — ah — well, they're — they're improving, aren't they?" said the captain, his voice rising to a desperate bellow as he tried to divert her. "I have looked forward, I have hoped, I have waited for the — ah — pleasure, the supreme honour," yelled Captain Whistler, of being present at a performance. And now you really must excuse me. I mustn't forget my duties, even at the expense of your charming company. I must — er — go. Good night, my dear. Good night, gentlemen."

He rolled away. There was a silence. Of the diners left at roundabout tables, Morgan noticed swiftly, only three people glanced after him. There was the sharp-edged, bony, shock-haired face of Mr. Charles Woodcock, the commercial traveller, who peered out motionless with his soup-spoon poised above his mouth as though he were going to pose for a figure on a fountain. At another table some distance away Morgan saw a man and a woman— both thin and well-dressed, their pale faces looking curiously alike except that the woman wore a monocle and the man a floating blond moustache like a feather waving from his lip. They stared after the captain. Morgan did not know who they were, but he saw them every morning. They made endless circuits of the promenade-deck, in absolute silence walking rapidly, with their eyes fixed straight ahead. One morning, in dull fascination, Morgan had watched them make one hundred and sixty-four circuits without a word. At the hundred and sixty-fifth they had stopped; the man said, "Eh?" and the woman said, "Ah!" and then they both nodded and went inside. It had occurred to Morgan to speculate how their marital relations were conducted… Anyhow, they seemed to be interested in the movements of Captain Whistler.

"The captain," said Morgan, frowning, "seems to have something on his mind…";

"Verra likely," agreed Dr. Kyle composedly. "I'll have the tripe and onions, steward."

Peggy Glenn smiled at him. "But I say, Doctor, do you think there might be a mysterious master criminal aboard?"

"Why, I'll tell you," said the doctor, bending his head. His shrewd eyes were amused; under the ragged brows whisking upwards at the corners, and with the furrows deepening round his mouth, Morgan thought uncomfortably that he looked a little too much like Sherlock Holmes. "And I'll put in a word of warning gratis. You're a clever young lady, Miss Glenn. But don't pull Captain Whistler's leg too hard. He'd be a bad man to have on the wrong side of anybody. Please pass the salt."

The dining-saloon soared up on another swell, and tilted amid sour notes from the orchestra. "But, really," said Peggy, "I mean, it's perfectly true about poor old Curt… "

"Oh, ah!" said Dr. Kyle. "Was he sober?"

"Doctor," she told him, lowering her voice confidentially, "I hate to tell it, but he was terribly, terribly drunk, poor boy. I mean, it's all right to speak of these things to a medical man, isn't it? But I pitied him from the bottom of my heart, poor boy, when I saw…"

Morgan got her away from the table after a brief and telegraphic exchange of kicks. They navigated the big staircase and stood in a breezy, lurching hall upstairs while Morgan said things. But Peggy, her prim little face beaming, only chortled with pleasure. She said she must go to her cabin and get a wrap, if they were going to watch with the others; also that she ought to look in on her Uncle Jules.

"By the way," she said, doubtfully, "I don't suppose you'd care to be a Moorish warrior, would you?"

"Not particularly," said Morgan, with conviction. "Is this relevant to the issue?"

"All you'd have to do, you know, would be blacken your face and put on some gilt armour and shawls and things; and stand at one side of the stage with a spear while Uncle Jules speaks the prologue… I wonder if you're tall enough, though? I say, Captain Valvick would make a ripping Moorish warrior, wouldn't he?"

"Oh, unquestionably."

"You see, there have to be two extras, a French warrior and a Moor, who stand on either side of the stage for effect. The stage isn't high enough for them to be on it; they're outside, on a little platform… When the play begins they go backstage, and sometimes they help move the figures — the unimportant ones that have nothing to do. Only my uncle and Abdul (that's his assistant) move the chief figures; they're the only ones with speaking parts… I say, it would be simply awful if Uncle Jules can't play. There's a professor or somebody aboard who's written all kinds of articles about his art. Abdul's all right and he could take the main part in place of uncle. But I'm the only other one, and I couldn't very well say the men's lines, could I?"

They had gone down into a tangle of passages on D deck, and Peggy knocked at a door. In response to a spectral groan, she pushed the door open. The cabin was dark except for a faint light over the washstand. That scene— with the cabin twisting sideways, and rain slashing the porthole — gave Morgan a slight shiver. Two or three witless-looking dummies were sprawled against the bulkhead in a seated position, and swayed with the motion as though they were moving their heads in a horrible chorus. The straps and hooks for their wires rattled eerily; they were solid lumps about four and a half feet tall; they glittered with gilt armour, red cloaks, and gaudy jewelled accoutrements. Their faces, bearded formidably in dark wool, smirked from under spiked helmets. While they swayed, a powerful-looking man with a flattish dark face sat on the couch with another dummy across his knee. In the dim light he was mending the figures cloak with a long needle and blue thread. Occasionally he glanced towards the dark berth where something heavy was burrowing and groaning.

"Je meurs!" whispered a voice from the berth, dramatically. "Ah, mon Dieu, je meurs! Oooool Abdul, je t'implore…

Abdul shrugged, squinted at his needle, shrugged again, and spat on the floor. Peggy closed the door.

"He's no better," she said, unnecessarily, and they started back to the cabin where Warren was waiting. Morgan, in fact, was not eager for more than a glimpse into that cabin. Whether it was merely night and the rain in the middle of a shouting Atlantic, or merely that dull after-dinner feeling which is not dispelled on shipboard without bibulous hilarity, still he did not like the look of those smirking dummies. Moreover, such an irrelevant impression as that had given him another impression — of trouble ahead. There was no Q.E.D. about it, or even a rational subtlety. But he glanced round rather sharply when they reached the side passage that led to Warren's cabin.

It opened off a main corridor, and its short length contained two cabins on either side. Warren's was an end one on the left, beside a door opening out on C deck. It was dark, and the white-painted door was hooked open. Morgan knocked in the manner agreed on at the door beside it, and they slipped inside.

Only the light inside the lower berth was on. Warren sat gingerly on the edge of the berth. And he looked worried.

Morgan said sharply, but in a low voice, "Anything wrong?"

"Plenty," said the other. "Sit down and keep as quiet as you can. I think we've got a long time to wait, but you never can tell what this joker will be up to. Valvick's gone for some soda-water. And we're set now." He nodded towards the ventilator high in the wall, communicating with the next cabin. "If anybody goes in there, we can hear him in a second. Then we nab him. Moreover, I've got the hook on the door wedged so that, no matter how quiet he tries to be, he'll make a racket as loud as an alarm clock."

Warren paused, rubbing his jaw rather nervously and peering about the dim-lit state-room. He had discarded the towel round his head, but absorbent gauze and sticking-plaster along the back of the skull still made his dark hair stand up in a goblin-like way. The glow in the berth illumined one side of his face, and they could see a vein beating in his temple.

"Curt," said the girl, "what is wrong?"

"All hell, I'm afraid. Old Valvick went to see Captain Whistler before dinner… "

"Yes?"

"Well, I don't know how much in earnest you people were when we were sitting in there piling up theories about fancy crooks. But the impossible happened. We were right. There's a very badly wanted little joker aboard, and no joke about it. He's after old Sturton's emerald. And — he's a killer."

Morgan felt in the pit of his stomach an uneasy sensation which was partly the motion of the ship. He said:

"Are you serious, or is this—?"

"You bet I'm serious. So is Whistler. Valvick got the information from him, because Whistler badly needs advice. Old Valvick's story is pretty muddled; but that much is clear. Whistler wonders whether to keep it dark or broadcast the news to the ship. Valvick advised the latter: it's customary. But Whistler says this is a respectable boat, a family boat, and the rest of that stuff… "

Morgan whistled. Peggy went over and sat down beside Warren. She protested stoutly that it was nonsense and she didn't believe it.

"Who is he, Curt? What do they know about him?" she demanded.

"That's just it. Nobody seems to know, except that he's travelling under an alias. You remember, I told you this afternoon that when I was in the radio-room old Whistler seemed to be having a row with the wireless operator?… Well, that was it. He'd got a radiogram. Fortunately, Valvik had the sense to persuade Whistler to let him take a copy of it. Have a look."

From his inside pocket he took an envelope, on the back of which was sprawled in crooked handwriting:

Commander S.S. Queen Victoria, at sea. Suspect Man responsible for Stelly job in Washington and Mac-gee killing here sailed under alias your ship. Federal officer arriving to-night from Washington and will send fuller information. Look out for smooth customers and advise if any suspects.

Arnold, Commissioner N.Y.P.D.

"I don't know anything about this MacGee killing, whatever it is, in New York," Warren went on, "but I know a little about the Stelly business because it raised such a row and looked like magic. It was tied up with the British Embassy. Stelly seems to have been a pretty well-

known English jewel-cutter and appraiser……."

"Hold on!" said Morgan. "D'you mean that Bond Street fellow, the one who's always designing the necklaces for royalty and having pictures of his work in the newspapers?"

Warren grunted. "Probably. Because it seems he was staying in Washington, and the wife of the British ambassador asked him to reset or redesign a necklace for her. I don't know the details of it — nobody knows much about it. But he left the British Embassy with the necklace one night, as safe as you please, and about four hours later they found him somewhere out Connecticut Avenue way. He was sitting on the kerbstone with his back propped up against a street lamp, and the back of his head smashed in. He didn't die, but he'll be a paralysed moron for the rest of his life, and never speak a word. That seems to be a quaint habit of this joker. He doesn't exactly kill; but he has a knack of softening their heads ho that they're worse than dead…

"By the Lord!" said Warren, clenching and unclenching his hands, "I'm wondering whether that's what / nearly got in the other cabin, only the fellow missed his aim when the ship rolled."

There was a silence, made portentous by creaking bulkheads and the blustering roar outside.

"I say, Peggy," Morgan observed, thoughtfully, "you'd better get out of this, old girl. It isn't funny. Go up to the bar and entice some gullibles into a bridge game. If this basher comes along and tries to pinch the rest of the film, we'll let you know. Meantime—"

The girl said, with vehemence, "Bah! You can't scare mc. You are a cheerful lot, though. Why don't you start telling ghost stories? If you start off by being afraid of this chap—"

"Who's afraid of him?" shouted Warren. "Listen, Baby. I've got something to settle, I have. When I get at him—" Satirically he watched her jump a little when there was a knock at the door. Captain Valvick bearing two large siphons of soda-water, bent his head under the door and closed it behind him with a mysterious air.

Morgan always remembered the ensuing two hours (or possibly three) on account of the interminable game of Geography that was played to pass away the time. Captain Valvick — cheerfully twinkling, in no whit disturbed — insisted that they should turn out the light, hook the door partly open, and get enough light from the dim bulb in the passage. First he administered to each a hair-raising peg of whisky, which made them feel anew the excellence of the adventure; then he placed them in a weird circle on the floor, with the bottle in the middle like a camp fire; finally, he filled up the glasses again.

"Skoal!" said the captain, raising his glass in the dim light. "Ay tell you, diss iss de life. Coroosh! But ay got to feel bad about Captain Whistler. Ho-ho! Dat poor old barnacle iss near crazy, you bet, on account of de crook which like to steal de jewellery. He iss afraid diss crook going to rob de English duke, and he try to persuade de duke to let him lock up de hemereld helephant in de captain's safe. But dat duke only give him de bird. He say, 'It be safer wit' me dan in your safe, or wit' de purser or anybody.' De captain say no. De duke say yes. De captain say no. De duke say yes… "

"Look here, you can omit the element of suspense," said Morgan, taking another drink. "What did they decide?"

"Ay dunno yust what dey decide. But ay got to feel bad about dat poor old barnacle. Come on, now; we play Geography."

This game was trying, but in many senses lively. As the whisky diminished, it led to long and bitter arguments between Warren and the captain. The latter, when stumped for a place-name, would always introduce some such place as Ymorgenickenburg or the River Skoof, in Norway. Warren would heatedly cast slurs on his veracity. Then the captain would say he had an aunt living there. As this was not considered prima facie evidence, he would embark on a long and complicated anecdote about the relative in question, with accounts of such other members of his family as happened to occur to him. Morgan's watch ticked on, and the stir about the boat gradually died away into a roaring night, as they heard about the captain's brother, August, his Cousin Ole, his niece Gretta, and his grandfather who was a beadle. Footsteps went by in the main corridor, but none of them turned into the side passage. It was growing stuffy in the cabin…

"I–I think he probably won't come," Peggy whispered, reverting to the subject for the first, time. There was an uneasy hopefulness in the way she said it.

"It's hotter than hell in here," muttered Warren. Glassware rattled faintly. "I'm tired of the game, anyhow. I think—"

"Listen!" said Morgan.

He had scrambled up and was holding to the side of the berth. They all felt it — a terrific draught blowing through the passage outside, rattling the hooks of the doors, and they heard the deeper tumult of the sea boiling more loudly. The door to D deck had been pushed open.

But it did not close. They were all standing up now, waiting to hear the swish and slam of that door as it closed against the compressed-air valve. Those doors were heavy; and in a wind you dodged inside quickly. But for an interminable time something seemed to be holding it partly open, while the draught whistled. The Queen Victoria rose, pitched, and went over in a long roll to starboard, but still the door stayed open. It was impossible to distinguish smaller noises above the crazy wickerwork creaking, but yet Morgan had an eerie sense that the door did not close because it could not; that there was something caught there, trapped in a snare and in pain, between the black sea and warm security inside.

They heard a moan. A faint voice seemed to be muttering something, muttering and repeating thinly in the passage. "Warren!" they thought it said. And again, "Warren…." until it died off in pain.

5 — Enter the Emerald Elephant

Morgan almost pitched head foremost into the wardrobe as his clumsy fingers fumbled at the hook on the door. He righted himself, squeezed outside, and called to Valvick to follow.

There was something caught there. It was small and broken-looking, snapped between the jamb and the heavy door — a woman fallen forward across a sill six inches high. She wore no hat, and her dishevelled brown hair, which had tumbled down along one side, blew wildly in the draught. They could not see her face. Her hands, flung forward out of the sleeves of a green, fur-edged coat, were groping in weak movements — horribly, as though she were tapping at the keys of a piano. The head and body rolled with the ship. As they did, a splashing of blood ran thinly along the rubber matting of the floor.

With his shoulder, Morgan forced the door wide while Captain Valvick picked the woman up. Then the door boomed shut once more with a cessation of draught that made them shiver.

"Dat blood," said Valvick, suddenly, in a low voice. "Look! It iss from her nose. She been hit on de back off de head… "

Her head lay limply in the crook of the captain's arm; and he moved his arm as though with a notion he must not touch her there. She was a sturdy, wiry girl with thick eyebrows and long lashes — not unattractive under a pallor that made her rouge stand out, but with one of those straight Greek-coin faces which have a look of heaviness rather than beauty. Her throat quivered as the head lolled over. Breathing raspingly, with eyes squeezed shut, she seemed to be trying to move her lips.

"In here," Warren's voice said in a whisper from the door of the dark cabin. They carried her in, a trembling

Peggy making way for them, laid her down on the berth, and switched on the dim lamp inside. Morgan closed the door.

Peggy was very pale, but with some sudden mechanical Impulse she seized a towel off the rack and wiped the blood from the nose and mouth of the inert girl.

"Who — who is she? What—?"

"Get some whisky," said the captain, curtly. Blinking his pale blue eyes, he puffed slowly through his moustache; there was a scowl on his face as he ran one finger along the base of the woman's skull. "Ay dunno, but she may be hurt bad. Ha! Turn her on de side, and you wet de cloths. Ay haff to know somet'ing of what de doctor know because dere is no doctor on de cargo-boat… Ha! Maybe—"

"I've seen her before," said Warren. He steadily poured out whisky and put it to the girl's lips as the captain eased up her head. "Hold it… I'll see if I can force her teeth apart. Damn it! she's jerking like a mule… She was the girl in the wireless-room this afternoon, the one who was there when I got my cable. You think her skull's fractured?"

"She might—" Peggy observed, in a small voice—"she might have fallen—"

"Haaaah!" growled the captain, jerking his neck. "She fall like Mr. Warren fall in de next cabin, you bet." His fingers were still exploring; his face looked heavy and puzzled. "Ho! Ay dunn, but ay don't t'ink she got de skull fractured; don't feel like it. See, it pain her when ay feel, eh? And dat iss not de way dey act if dey are bad 'urt… " He drew a wheezing breath. "Try de whisky again. So."

"I'll swear I heard her saying my name," Warren whispered," "Got those wet towels, Hank? Put 'em on. Come on — er — ma'am" he said, with a kind of wild, coaxing note, "take some of this liquor… Up you go!… Come on!"

His face wore a rather weird encouraging smile as he clicked the glass against her locked teeth. A shudder went over the white face. The Queen Victoria pitched down in \ a long foam of water, diving with such a deeper cyclone plunge that it flung them all against the forward bulkhead, and they could feel the thick shaking as the propellers beat out of water. But they could hear something else also. It had been done softly, with little draught and no slam whatever, but the door to D deck had again been opened and closed.

They were silent amid the rattling of the cabin. Warren, who had been cursing in a whisper when the contents of the glass splashed wide, turned round sharply. His face, under the wild goblin hair, wore a look of triumphant malevolence. Clinging to furniture, they waited…

Somebody was trying the latch-hook of the cabin next door.

There was an elaborate pantomime of communication. Morgan's lips elaborately writhed to frame, "Let him get inside," as he jerked his thumb at the next cabin. Valvick and Warren nodded; they were all making fierce gestures, and nodding to one another, and trying to reach the passage-door without sprawling full-length. Warren glared at Peggy, and his lips formed, "You stay here," as he pointed at the girl in the berth and then savagely stabbed his finger at the floor. Giving him an answering glare, she folded over her under-lip mutinously and shook her head until the hair obscured her eyes. He repeated his order, first pleadingly and then with a graphic pantomime of somebody being strangled. Rearing out of the trough, the ship was climbing again on a steep upward slant…

The light in the next room was switched on…

Here on the floor, the whisky-bottle was rolling and bumping wildly. Captain Valvick made a dart for it, as a man chases his hat in a gale. The pantomime still went on, grotesque against the dim light in the berth, where that pale-faced figure was twisting…