companion, where we
paused a moment staring blindly about us into the fog. Even the guard
at the main hatch was invisible.

"This can scarcely last long," I remarked, "but there may be a storm
brewing."

"I don't think so, sir," one of the men answered civilly. "I've run in
to these yere mists afore 'long this coast; it's liable ter be all
clear 'fore the sun goes down."

"Well we'll make the ship safe first Carter, you are an able seaman?"

"Yes, sir."

"Guard this after deck until Watkins and I come back. Under no
circumstances permit LeVere to enter the cabin. You understand?"

He grinned appreciatively.

"That nigger ain't likely ter get by me, sir; I'd just like for ter
take one whack at him."

"Don't be rough, if you can help it. As far as I know now he is with
us, and ranks second officer. My only orders are--see that he remains
on deck while we are below."

"Ay, ay, sir; he'll stay thar." With the door closed, we were
plunged into a darkness which rendered the interior invisible. I
wondered dimly why the man on guard had not lighted the swinging
lantern but before I could call out to the fellow, Watkins whispered.

"What's up? Anything wrong in here?"

"Not that I know of, but the young lady reported Sanchez moving about
in his stateroom and I think it safer to see to him at once."

"It's blacker than hell down thar."

"Yes; I don't understand it--wait here a minute until I strike a
light."

I stumbled over something on the deck, as I groped forward, but with
mind centered on the one object, did not pause until I had located the
lantern. It blazed up brightly enough, its yellow flame illuminating
the cabin, and the first thing I saw was the outstretched figure of
the sailor almost between my feet. I sprang back, giving utterance to
a cry, which brought Watkins to me, and the two of us stared at the
grewsome object and then about into the wavering shadows. There was
nothing to see but the dead man, lying on his face motionless, blood
still oozing from an ugly knife wound in his back. We needed to ask no
questions, imagine nothing--the overturned chair, the stricken sailor
told the whole story. He had been treacherously stuck from behind, the
blade driven home by a strong hand, and was dead before he fell to the
deck. It had been silent, vengeful murder, and the assassin had left
no trace. Who could it have been? Not Gunsaules surely--the steward
lacked both nerve and strength for such a deed.