Captain Monk addressed Mr. Swain curtly:  “It’s the chief’s watch in the engine-room?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll have a talk with him presently, and go further into this affair.  In the meantime, how does she stand?”

“Under steerage way only”—­Mr. Swain consulted the tell-tale compass affixed to the deck-beam overhead—­“sou’west-by-south, sir.”

“Must’ve swung off during that cursed dark spell.  When I came below, two or three minutes before, we were heading into The Race, west-nor’west, having left Cerberus Shoal whistling buoy to port about fifteen minutes earlier.  Get her back on that course, if you please, Mr. Swain, and proceed at half-speed.  Don’t neglect your soundings.  I’ll join you as soon as I feel fit.”

“Very good, sir.”

Mr. Swain withdrew.  Captain Monk let his head sink back on its pillows and shut his eyes.  Liane Delorme solicitously stroked his forehead.  The captain opened his eyes long enough to register adoration with the able assistance of the eyebrows.  Liane smiled down upon him divinely.  Lanyard thought that affection was a beautiful thing, but preserved a duly concerned countenance.

“I could do with a whiskey and soda,” Monk confessed feebly.  “No, not you, please”—­as Liane offered to withdraw the compassionate hand—­“Phin isn’t busy.”

Mr. Phinuit hastened to make himself useful.

A muted echo of the engine-room telegraph was audible then, and the engines took up again their tireless chant.  Lanyard cocked a sly eye at the tell-tale; it designated their course as west-by-north a quarter west.  He was cheered to think that his labours at the binnacle were bearing fruit, and grateful that Monk was so busy being an invalid waited upon and pitied by a beautiful volunteer nurse that he was willing to trust the navigation to Mr. Swain and had no time to observe by the tell-tale whether or not the course he had prescribed was being followed.

Liane’s exquisite and tender arm supported the suffering head of Captain Monk as he absorbed the nourishment served by Phinuit.  The eyebrows made an affectingly faint try at a gesture of gratitude.  The eyes closed, once more Monk’s head reposed upon the pillow.  He sighed like a weary child.

From the saloon came sounds of shuffling feet and mumbling voices as seamen carried away all that was mortal of Monsieur Popinot.

Between roars of the fog signal, six bells vibrated on the air.  Phinuit cocked his head intelligently to one side, ransacked his memory, and looked brightly to Lanyard.

“Ar-har!” he murmured—­“the fatal hour!”

Lanyard gave him a gracious smile.

In attenuated accents Captain Monk, without opening his eyes or stirring under the caresses of that lovely hand, enquired: 

“What say, Phin?”

“I was just reminding Monsieur Lanyard the fatal hour has struck, old thing.”

The eyebrows knitted in painful effort to understand.  When one has narrowly escaped death by strangulation one may be pardoned some slight mental haziness.  Besides, it makes to retain sympathy, not to be too confoundedly clear-headed.