At first the labouring vessel seemed to hold its own, fighting desperately to remain afloat, a mere shadow above the surface.  Then, almost without warning, the end came.  She went down bow first, the stern lifting until West could discern the dark outlines of the screw, and then dropped like a stone, vanishing almost instantly.  One moment she was there; the next had disappeared, the black waters closing over.  There was but little evidence of what occurred; only a deeper swell, tossing the raft giddily about for a moment, and causing West to tighten his grip on the girl’s hand.  She gave utterance to a half-smothered cry, and her body dropped forward as though she would hide the scene from her eyes.

“That is the last of the Seminole” West said, feeling the necessity of strengthening her.  “But it is nothing to frighten you.  We are safe enough here.”

“Oh, it is not that,” she explained hastily, lifting her head, and facing him.  “I—­I do not think I am frightened.  I have not broken down before, but—­but I thought then of that dead man lying there all alone in the dark cabin.  It seemed so terrible when the yacht sank.  Please do not find fault with me.”

“That was not why I spoke.  But you must keep your nerve; we may be afloat for hours yet before we are picked up.”

“You are sure we will be?”

“The probability is altogether in our favour,” he insisted, as much to encourage himself as her.  “This is Lake Michigan in summer time, and boats are plying everywhere.  We shall surely be sighted by something when daylight returns.  There is no sign of a storm brewing, and all we need do now is hold on.”

She was silent a moment, with head again bent forward.

“What do you suppose became of the men who deserted the yacht?” she asked, her voice natural and quiet.

“Ashore, perhaps, by this time.”

“Then we cannot be far away from land?”

“I have no means of knowing.  Probably not, if they relied upon oars.”

“Why should they?  There was a mast and sails stowed in the boat; they were always kept there for an emergency.”  She lifted her eyes, and stared about into the gloom.  “Do you suppose, Captain West, they could have remained nearby to make sure the yacht sank?”

“No, I do not,” he said firmly.  “I thought of that once myself; but it is not at all probable.  They were too certain they had done a good job, and too eager to get away safely.  Hogan never deemed it possible for us to get away alive.  As it was, the escape was almost a miracle.”

“A miracle!” softly.  “Perhaps so, yet I know who accomplished it.  I owe my life to you, Captain West,” she paused doubtfully, and then went on impulsively.  “Won’t you explain to me now what it all means?  How you came to be here? and—­and why those men sought in this way to kill me?”

“You do not know?”

“Only in the vaguest way; is it my fortune?  I have been held prisoner; lied to, and yet nothing has been made clear.  This man who went down in the cabin—­you said he died trying to save me?”