“Michael Lanyard?” the mutter persisted—­“the Lone Wolf?”

“Yes, yes!  What then?”

“I suppose the best way’s to put it to you straight...”

“I warn you, you’ll gain nothing if you don’t.”

“Then... to begin at the beginning...  I’ve known Whit Monk a good long time.  Years I’ve known him.  We’ve sailed together off and on ever since we took to the sea; we’ve gone through some nasty scrapes together, and done things that don’t bear telling, and always shared the thick and the thin of everything.  Before this, if anybody had ever told me Whit Monk would do a pal dirt, I’d’ve punched his head and thought no more about it.  But now...”

The mutter faltered.  Lanyard preserved a sympathetic silence—­a silence, at least, which he hoped would pass as sympathetic.  In reality, he was struggling to suppress any betrayal of the exultation that was beginning to take hold of him.  Premature this might prove to be, but it seemed impossible to misunderstand the emotion under which the chief engineer was labouring or to underestimate its potential value to Lanyard.  Surely it would seem that his faith in his star had been well-placed:  was it not now—­or all signs failed—­delivering into his hand the forged tool he had so desperately needed, for which he had so earnestly prayed?

A heavy sigh issued upon the stillness, freighted with a deep and desolating melancholy.  For, it appeared, like all cynics, Mr. Mussey was a sentimentalist at heart.  And in the darkness that disembodied voice took up its tale anew.

“I don’t have to tell you what’s going on between Whit and that lot he’s so thick with nowadays.  You know, or you wouldn’t be here.”

“Isn’t that conclusion what you Americans would call a little previous?”

“Previous?” The mutter took a moment to con the full significance of that adjective.  “No:  I wouldn’t call it that.  You see, on a voyage like this—­well, talk goes on, things get about, things are said aloud that shouldn’t be and get overheard and passed along; and the man who sits back and listens and sifts what he hears is pretty likely to get a tolerably good line on what’s what.  Of course there’s never been any secret about what the owner means to do with all this wine he’s shipped.  We all know we’re playing a risky game, but we’re for the owner—­he isn’t a bad sort, when you get to know him—­and we’ll go through with it and take what’s coming to us win or lose.  Partly, of course, because it’ll mean something handsome for every man if we make it without getting caught.  But if you want to know what I think...  I’ll tell you something...”

“But truly I am all attention.”

“I think Whit Monk and Phinuit and mam’selle have framed the owner between them.”

“Can’t say I quite follow...”