ered such sinister
omen that temporarily he was bereft of his natural wit and initiative.

"Where's Dodge?" he asked, stupidly.

"Dodge is resting quietly," answered Cunningham, gravely. "He'll be on his
feet in a day or two."

That seemed to wake up Cleigh a bit. He drew his automatic.

"Face to the wall, or I'll send a bullet into you!"

Cunningham shook his head.

"Did you examine the clip this morning? When you carry weapons like that
for protection never put it in your pocket without a look-see. Dodge
wouldn't have made your mistake. Shoot! Try it on the floor, or up through
the lights--or at me if you'd like that better. The clip is empty."

Mechanically Cleigh took aim and bore against the trigger. There was no
explosion. A depressing sense of unreality rolled over the _Wanderer's_
owner.

"So you went into town for her luggage? Did you find the beads?"

Cleigh made a negative sign. It was less an answer to Cunningham than an
acknowledgment that he could not understand why the bullet clip should be
empty.

"It was an easy risk," explained Cunningham. "You carried the gun, but I
doubt you ever looked it over. Having loaded it once upon a time, you
believed that was sufficient, eh? Know what I think? The girl has hidden
the beads in her hair. Did you search her?"

Again Cleigh shook his head, as much over the situation as over the
question.

"What, you ran all this risk and hadn't the nerve to search her? Well,
that's rich! Unless you've read her from my book. She would probably have
scratched out your eyes. There's an Amazon locked up in that graceful
body. I'd like to see her head against a bit of clear blue sky--a touch of
Henner blues and reds. What a whale of a joke! Abduct a young woman, risk
prison, and then afraid to lay hands on her! You poor old piker!"
Cunningham laughed.

"Cunningham----"

"All right, I'll be merciful. To make a long story short, it means that
for the present I am in command of this yacht. I warned you. Will you be
sensible, or shall I have to lock you up like your two-gun man from
Texas?"

"Piracy!" cried Cleigh, coming out of his maze.

"Maritime law calls it that, but it isn't really. No pannikins of rum, no
fifteen men on a dead man's chest. Parlour stuff, you might call it. The
whole affair--the parlour side of it--depends upon whether you purpose to
act philosophically under stress or kick up a hullabaloo. In the latter
event you may reasonably expect some rou