out as he fell. Dead now, beyond any helping.
"Here is something that I found by the rail," came the voice of Darby.
From him Cleghorn took a little silver pencil with pocket-clip. It was one he himself had given Macintyre. Cleghorn stood there, trembling; grief and fury rushed upon him at once, and then a stifled groan came from his lips.
"It's Mac, the chief," he said in a low voice. "Murdered like Adams. Good Lord! What does it mean? Who's the killer? There must be an insane man aboard here, a madman—and Mac had been warned, too. He was on guard. Now we know how Charley Gray vanished. What's behind it?"
He turned upon Darby. In the moonlight his eyes glittered, his face was convulsed, he was filled with suspicion and hatred. At a word, at a look, he would have seized the smaller man before him like a rat.
Then his passion died out. Darby's scarred features bore a look that could not be mistaken—a look of earnest stupefaction, of deep alarm. The man was sincere.
"Him, of all people!" exclaimed Darby. "Lord, I'm sorry. He was a fine chap, cap'n; what the devil's to do about it? D'ye think Aranha"
Cleghorn caught at the name.
"Will you see if he's left that game since we were there? See what they say. Keep on your guard{{bar|2]}"
"Right," said Darby briskly. "I'm with you all the way, cap'n. Back in a minute."
As he departed, the chunky figure of Horton appeared.
"Hullo, cap'n. What's up? Darby told me about the blood"
"Mac's gone," said Cleghorn. "And, by the lord Harry, if I find out who's the bloody murderer, I'll wring his neck! Noticed anything queer?"
"Mac!" Horton caught his breath sharply. "Who, me? Not a thing, sir. Who done it?"
"How the hell do I know? Would I be yammering here like a fool if I knew?" cried Cleghorn in a tortured voice. "Watch yourself, old man. It's some of this damned gang we've got aboard us. Look out for that Aranha. None o' them have been killed—and look at us! You and me next. I can't figure this game, but look out!"
"You bet," assented Horton calmly. "I'll get back topside."
Cleghorn was alone once more. He moved out of the moonlight, stepped back inside the door of the engine-room entrance, paused there. No use questioning the men down there; if they did know anything, they'd lie, of course. His thoughts flew to Marie Silva, up there in her own cabin. She must be warned about all this deviltry. She might be the next to go. Cleghorn was stung afresh by his own helplessness, his inability to do anything. He was convinced that Darby was not concerned in it, however; the sincerity of the man was beyond any mistake.
A shuffle of feet on the deck outside, then a voice. The words petrified him.
"leave her alone, see? Peterson's got her picked out.”
"Trust him,” came the response, with a low, evil laugh. "Remember him and that dame down in Batavia?"
The two figures passed, oblivious of the man in the shadow. One was Martin, the quartermaster. The words burned into Cleghorn. He stood motionless, then heard Darby's brisk step.
"Hey, cap'n! Where are ye?"
