“We’ll go down together, Senor,” I said quietly.  “Estada must be sick; I could hear the rumpus Amada kicked up even on deck here.  No man could sleep through that racket.”

CHAPTER XVIII

A NEW CONSPIRACY

The interior of the cabin appeared more desolate than ever in the gray light of dawn.  The swinging light yet burned, but was now useless, all the dismal horrors of the place revealed by the slowly increasing gleam of day stealing down from above.  Gunsaules had not appeared, and LeVere’s stateroom door remained ajar, giving glimpse of the disarranged bunk within.  The other doors were tightly closed.  LeVere rather held back, not noticeably so, perhaps, yet enough to give me the lead, and, with one swift glance about, I led the way directly to Estada’s stateroom.

Something sinister had occurred during the dark hours of the night.  Of that I was convinced, and I believed we were now about to lift the veil hiding the tragedy.  My heart pounded like a hammer as I rapped on the wooden panels and waited some response from within.  There was no answer, no sound of movement, and I rapped again more loudly, my questioning eyes seeking LeVere’s face.  He was listening as intently as myself, his eyes expressing anxiety.  If I had felt some suspicion of the man before, this lack of faith vanished—–­he certainly was concerned in no plot involving the life of the Portuguese.

“There is something wrong, Senor,” he whispered, “for he was ever a light sleeper.”

“Then we will find out what it is.”

The door was unlocked, the latch yielding instantly to the hand, and I stepped within.  A glance told everything.  The port was closed, but through the thick glass sufficient light found entrance to reveal the interior.  The chair before the table was overturned, and there were papers scattered about the deck.  Estada lay in his bunk, with one leg dangling outside, and his head crooked against the side wall.  His very posture was that of sudden death, even had it not been pictured by the ghastly face, peculiarly hideous in the gray light which stared at us, and the dark pool of blood underneath.  I heard an exclamation from LeVere, and stood for an instant utterly unable to move.  The only sound audible was the steady drip of blood.  I knew already what I should find, yet finally forced myself forward—­he was stone dead, pierced with three knife thrusts.  I stood up and faced the mulatto, whose countenance was fairly green with horror.

“What do you know about this, Senor LeVere?” I asked sternly.  “The man has been murdered, knifed.  Who did it—­and why?”

He could scarcely answer, gripping at the table for support, and never removing his gaze from the face of the dead man.  Yet I believed his words; was convinced this was not the terror of guilt.

“My God!  I cannot tell; I have never dreamed of this—­that is true, Senor.”