"On the whole they're the roughest lot I've ever seen cooped up together. If they should be turned loose, they would make a shambles of this ship--a red shambles, Kate!"

There was not a trace of color in her face. She watched him with a horrified fascination.

"Of course," he went on easily, "I'll be the first one to go down.

Harrigan would see to that. Well, it would be a worthwhile fight--while I lasted!"

"It can never take place!" she said desperately. "You are forewarned.

Tell Captain Henshaw at once, and--"

He raised his hand solemnly.

"You must not do that, Kate. You must promise me not to speak a word on the subject until I have given you leave."

"I will promise you anything--but why not speak of it at once? I feel as if we were standing over a--a magazine of powder!"

"We are--only worse. But it would be madness to warn Henshaw now. He is unnerved--almost insane. His granddaughter, for whom he had made all his fortune and to whom he is going in the States--"

"Yes, Salvain told me. She is dying; it is pitiful, Angus, but--"

"He must not be told. He would start with the hand of iron, and the first act of violence which he committed would be the touch of fire which would set off this powder magazine. No, we must wait. Perhaps in a little time I may be able to win over one of the mutineers and from him learn all their plans, and then turn the tables on them. But I must first know all the men who are concerned in the uprising. When we _do_ move--shall I spare Harrigan, Kate?"

He tried to ask it frankly, but a devil of malice was in his eyes.

"I don't know--I can't think! Angus, what did Dan mean?"

"I warned you of what he was capable," he said.

She caught his hands, stammering: "You are all that is left to me. You will stand between me and danger, Angus? You will protect me? But wait!

I could go to Harrigan. I _know_ that if I plead with him, I can win him away from the mutineers!"

"Kate, you are hysterical! Don't you see that a man who is capable of planning a wholesale murder in the night would be quite able to lie to you? No, no! Whatever you do, you must promise me not to speak a word of this to anyone, most of all, to Harrigan."

"I will promise anything--I will do anything. It all rests with you, Angus."

"And when we strike at the mutineers--if Harrigan falls, will you absolve me of his death, Kate?"

She was terribly moved, standing stiff and straight and helpless like a child about to be punished.

"Angus, for the sake of pity, do not ask me."

"I must know."

"Angus," came her broken voice, "I _cannot_ give up my faith in him."

His face grew as dark as night, but he laid a gentle hand on her shoulder and said: "Your mind is distraught. You shall have time to think this over; but remember, Kate, we must fight fire with fire, and the time has come when you must choose between us."

And then, very wisely, he slipped from the room.

CHAPTER 26

On the promenade outside he met Sloan, the wireless operator, on his way to Captain Henshaw's cabin with a slip of paper in his hand. Sloan winked at him broadly.

"The good news has come, sir," he grinned. "Take a look at this!"

And McTee eagerly read the typewritten slip.

_Beatrice is rallying. Doctors have decided effusion of blood was not hemorrhage. Opinion now very hopeful._

"Will that bring the old boy around for a while?" asked Sloan.

"He'll slip you a twenty on the strength of that and give you a drink as well," said McTee.

They reached the cabin and entered together to find that White Henshaw lay on the couch in the corner. His physical strength was apparently exhausted, and one long, lean arm dangled to the floor. At sight of the dreaded wireless operator with the message in his hand, his yellow face turned from yellow to pale ivory. He rose and supported himself with one hand against the wall, scowling as if he dared them to notice his weakness.

"Good news!" called Sloan cheerily, and extended the paper.

The captain s.n.a.t.c.hed the paper, his eyes were positively wolfish while he devoured the message.

"Sloan--good lad," he stammered. "Stay by your instrument every minute, my boy. Before night we'll have word that she's past all danger."

Sloan touched his cap and withdrew.

"Good news!" said McTee amiably. "I'm mighty glad to hear it, captain."

The old man fell back into a chair, holding the precious piece of paper with its written lie in both trembling hands.

"Good news," he croaked. "Aye, McTee. You were right, lad! Those d.a.m.ned doctors don't know their business. They're making the case out bad so they'll get more credit for the cure. See how they're fooling with me-- and me with my heart on fire in the middle of the sea!"

His eyes wandered strangely in the midst of his exultation.

"That would be a strange death, eh, McTee--to burn in the middle of the sea with a ship full of gold?"

The Scotchman shuddered.

"Forget that, man. You're not going to burn at sea. You're going to reach port with all your gold and you're going to stand beside Beatrice and say--"

Henshaw broke in: "And say, 'Beatrice, I've come to make you happy.

We'll leave this country where the fogs are so thick and the sun never shines, and we'll go south, far south, where there's summer all the year.' That's what I'll say!"

"Right," nodded McTee. "If her lungs are weak, that's the place to take her."

Henshaw jerked erect in his chair. "Weak lungs? Who said she had weak lungs? McTee, you're a fool! A little cold on the chest, that's all that's the matter with the girl! The doctors have made the sickness-- they and their rotten medicines! And now they're making sport out of White Henshaw. I'll skin them alive, I will!"

McTee lighted a cigar and nodded judiciously as he puffed it.