of his brain had been
working at the problem of time--was there time to follow and prevent?
There was not. He knew the _Berenice's_ natural speed to be eighteen
knots. Put it at sixteen, fifteen even; still not the fastest destroyer
in the port--following in a bee-line--could overtake her by midnight.
And there might be, must be, delays. Yet God, too, might interfere;
some providential accident might delay the cruise. _He_ must run, at
any rate. He picked up his hat and ran.

Now that he was taking action--doing something--the worst horror of
responsibility left him for a while; he seemed to have cast some of it
already off his own shoulders and on to the Admiral's. As he ran he
found time to think of Casey. Casey was doing this thing--not in hatred
or in villainy for gain--but because it seemed to him right--right, or
at least necessary. Casey was laying down his own life in the deed.
How could man, framed in God's image, expect ultimate good out of
devilish cruelty? Yet from the world's beginning men had murdered and
tortured each other on this only plea; had butchered women and the very
babes; had stamped upon God's image and--marvel of marvels--for its
soul's salvation, not for their own advantage. At every stride Gilbart
felt his moral footing, trusted for years without question, cracking and
crumbling and swirling away in blocks. Red flames leapt into the
fissures and filled them. The end of the world had surely come; but--he
must run to the Admiral! He kept that uppermost in his mind, and ran.

The windows of the Admiralty House blazed with light. The Admiral's
wife was giving a dinner and a dance, and already a small crowd had
gathered to see the earlier guests arrive. The sight dashed Gilbart.
Suddenly he remembered that the letter had reached him by the afternoon
post. It was now half-past seven, and he would have to explain the
interval; for of course the Admiral would suspect the whole story at
first. Gilbart knew the official manner; he had been privileged to
study the fine flower of it in this particular Admiral one afternoon six
months before, when the great man had condescended to sit on the
platform at the Mission anniversary. "Tut, tut--a stupid practical joke
"--that would be the beginning; and then would follow cross-examination
in the coldest court-martial fashion. Well, he could explain; but it
would be just as well to have the story pat beforehand.

One minute--ten minutes we