One saw the garroter creeping through the blackness of the saloon from his hiding place, forward in the cabin of the chief engineer; stationing himself at the door to Monk’s quarters, with his chosen weapon, that deadly handkerchief of his trade, ready for the throat of the Lone Wolf when he should emerge, in accordance with his agreement with Mr. Mussey, the spoils of the captain’s safe in his hands.  Then one saw Monk, alarmed by the sudden failure of the lights, hurrying out to return to the bridge, the pantherish spring upon the victim’s back, the swift, dextrous noosing of the handkerchief about his windpipe, the merciless tightening of it—­all abruptly illuminated by the white glare of Phinuit’s electric torch.  And then the truncated crimson of the first pistol flash, the frantic effort to escape, the hunting of that gross shape of flesh by the beam of light and the bullets as Popinot doubled and twisted round the saloon like a rat in a pit, the last mad plunge for the companionway, the flight up its steps that had by the narrowest margin failed to save him...

Phinuit and Liane Delorme were too busy to heed; quietly Lanyard slipped the pistol into a pocket and got to his feet.  Then Swain came charging down the steps to find out what all the row was about, and to report—­which he did as soon as Monk was sufficiently recovered to understand—­those outrageous and darkly mysterious assaults upon the helmsman and Mr. Collison.  Both men, he stated, were unfit for further duty that night, though neither (Lanyard was happy to learn) had suffered any permanent injury.

But what—­in the name of insanity!—­could have inspired such a meaningless atrocity?  What could its perpetrator have hoped to gain?  What—!

Monk, stretched out upon a leather couch in his sitting-room, levelled eyebrows of suspicion at Lanyard, who countered with a guilelessness so perfect as to make it appear that he did not even comprehend the insinuation.

“If I may offer a suggestion...” he said with becoming diffidence.

“Well?” Monk demanded with a snap, despite his languors.  “What’s on your mind?”

“It would seem to a benevolent neutral like myself...  You understand I was in my deck-chair by the taffrail throughout all this affair.  The men at the sounding machine nearby can tell you I did not move before the shots in the saloon——­”

“How the devil could they know that in the dark?”

“I was smoking, monsieur; they must, if they looked, have seen the fire of my cigarette...  As I was about to suggest:  It would seem to me that there must be some obscure but not necessarily unfathomable connection between the three events; else how should they synchronise so perfectly?  How did Popinot know the lights would go out a few minutes after five bells?  He was prepared, he lost no time.  How did the other miscreant, whoever he was, know it would be safe to commit that wickedness, whatever its purpose, upon the bridge at precisely that time?  For plainly he, too, was prepared to act upon the instant—­that is, if I understand Mr. Swain’s report correctly.  And how did it happen that the dynamo went out of commission just then?  What did happen in the engine-room?  Does anybody know?  I think, messieurs, if you find out the answer to that last question you will have gone some way toward solving your mystery.”