“Fatal hour?”

“The dear man promised to turn in his answer to our unselfish little proposition at six bells to-night and not later.”

“Really?” The voice was interested, and so were the eyebrows; but Monk was at pains not to move.  “And has he?”

“Not yet, old egg.”

Monk opened expectant eyes and fixed them upon Lanyard’s face, the eyebrows acquiring a slant of amiable enquiry.

“There is much to be said,” Lanyard temporised.  “That is, if you feel strong enough...”

“Oh, quite,” Monk assured him in tones barely audible.

“Must it be a blow to the poor dear?” Phinuit enquired.

“I hope not, very truly.”

(The tell-tale now betrayed a course northwest-by-north.  Had the binnacle compass, then, gone out of its head altogether, on finding itself bereft of its accustomed court of counter-attractions?)

“Well, here we all are, sitting forward on the edges of our chairs, holding onto the seats with both hands, ears pricked forward, eyes shining...  The suspense,” Phinuit avowed, “is something fierce!”

“I am sorry.”

“What d’you mean, you’re sorry?  You’re not going to back out?”

“Having never walked into the arrangement you propose, it would be difficult to back out—­would it not?”

Monk forgot that he was suffering acutely, forgot even the beautiful and precious hand that was soothing his fevered brow, and rudely shaking it off, sat up suddenly.  The eyebrows were distinctly minatory above eyes that loosed ugly gleams.

“You refuse?”

Lanyard slowly inclined his head:  “I regret I must beg to be excused.”

“You damned fool!”

“Pardon, monsieur?”

A look of fury convulsed Liane’s face.  Phinuit, too, was glaring, no longer a humourist.  Monk’s mouth was working, and his eyebrows had got out of hand altogether.

“I said you were a damned fool—­”

“But is not that a matter of personal viewpoint?  At least, the question would seem to be open to debate.”

“If you think arguments will satisfy us—!”

“But, my dear Captain Monk, I am really not at all concerned to satisfy you.  However, if you wish to know my reasons for declining the honour you would thrust upon me, they are at your service.”

“I’ll be glad to hear them,” said Monk grimly.

“One, I fancy, will do as well as a dozen.  It is, then, my considered judgment that, were I in the least inclined to resume the evil ways of my past—­as I am not—­I would be, as you so vividly put it, a damned fool to associate myself with people of a low grade of intelligence, wanting even enough to hold fast that which they have thieved!”

“By God!” Monk brought down a thumping fist.  “What are you getting at?”

“Your hopeless inefficiency, monsieur....  Forgive my bluntness.”

“Come through,” Phinuit advised in a dangerous voice.  “Just what do you mean?”