Cleghorn stepped out. Darby flung his cheroot over the rail.
"Game just broke up," he said. "I asked the steward; nobody had been gone, he said."
"Damn the steward! I'll bet he's in on this, too. Listen!" Fiercely, Cleghorn told what he had just overheard. Darby whistled softly.
"Some o' these men you shipped are in on it, sure!" he exclaimed. "Let's you and me go have a talk with this Rapp, mister."
"You're on," said Cleghorn grimly. "Meet you in five minutes below the bridge. I've got a slungshot tucked away in a drawer, and I'll get it, then join you."
Cleghorn started for his own cabin. So this devil Rapp was behind some of this work, eh? At all events, the girl was in no danger; that was one good thing. And now that he was warned, Rapp-Peterson was going to cough up information, and do it in a hurry.
Thus determined, Cleghorn turned into the passage, passed the door of the girl's cabin, shoved open his own door, and reached for the light. His figure was illumined by the light in the passage, the cabin was pitch-black. As he put out his arm, something moved before him. Every sense alert, he ducked, and swerved quickly to one side.
A furious blow glanced from his head—had he not ducked, it would have brained him. Half stunned, he hurled himself to one side, and collided full with an unseen figure. His hands shot out. A grim and furious satisfaction seized Cleghorn as his fingers sank into the throat of a man, sank in with a terrible grip.
Another smash over the head, and another.
Blinded, he sank in his fingers the deeper. The two struggling figures hit against the door, and it slammed shut. Now there was perfect darkness. In his ears, Cleghorn heard the hoarse, frenzied panting of a man, felt the smashing blows of the other's fists and of some blunt weapon. He had not the slightest idea who it could be, and cared not. This fellow had been waiting here to get him, and had come within an ace of it.
That man, gripped about the throat by those fingers of iron, gasped terribly, struggled with blind and frantic desperation to loose the grip, and could not. His strength began to fail. Again Cleghorn caught a terrific smash over the head, and this fourth blow all but knocked him out.
He lost balance, but did not lose his grip. He dragged down the other with him; they fell heavily, rolled against the closed door, and lay there sprawling. Flashes of fire beat before Cleghorn's eyes. He tried to rise, and could not. He felt his senses slipping away. With an effort, he held himself motionless, let all his strength, all his will-power, flow into his hard-gripped fingers.
Even when everything went black before him, there was no slackening of his frightful hold.
5
When Cleghorn came to his senses again, daylight was creeping into the cabin, stealing across his face, wakening him.
He sat up abruptly.
At first he remembered nothing, for his head was very sore and aching, and he was in a most uncomfortable position, twisted with another man, lying solidly against the door. Then, as he put both hands to his head and squirmed aside, he suddenly recollected what had passed the preceding night. With a start, he turned to the still, motionless figure lying there face down, and lifted it. The body
