Richardson looked half fearfully around.

“What for?”

“Attempted murder!  Very clumsily attempted, but attempted murder none the less.”

The young man collapsed.  Wingrave’s servant came down the deck.

“You sent for me, sir?” he inquired respectfully.

Wingrave pointed towards his companion.

“Was that the person whom you saw coming out of my state room?” he asked.

“Yes sir,” the man replied at once.

“You could swear to him, if necessary?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“That will do, Morrison.”

The man withdrew.  Wingrave turned to his victim.  “A few weeks ago,” he remarked, “I had a visit from the lady whose handwriting is upon that envelope.  I had on the table before me a box of phenacetine lozenges.  She naturally concluded that I was in the habit of using them.  That lady has unfortunately cause to consider me, if not an enemy, something very much like it.  You are in correspondence with her.  Only last night you placed in my box of these lozenges some others, closely resembling them, but fortunately a little different in shape.  Mine were harmless—­as a matter of fact, a single one of yours would kill a man in ten minutes.  Now, Mr. Richardson, what have you to say about all this?  Why should I not send for the captain, and have you locked up till we arrive at New York?”

Richardson drew his handkerchief across his damp forehead.

“You can’t prove nothing,” he muttered.

“I am afraid that I must differ from you,” Wingrave answered.  “We will see what the captain has to say.”

He leaned forward in his chair, to attract the attention of a seaman.

Richardson interposed.

“All right,” he said thickly.  “Suppose I own up!  What then?”

“A few questions—­nothing terrifying.  I am not very frightened of you.”

“Go on!”

“How did you become acquainted with the writer of that letter?”

Richardson hesitated.

“She came to a dancing class at Islington,” he said.

Wingrave’s face was expressionless, but his tone betrayed his incredulity.

“A dancing class at Islington!  Nonsense!”

“Mind,” the young man asserted, “it was her mistress who put her up to this!  It was nothing to do with her.  It was for her mistress’s sake.”

“Do you know the mistress?” Wingrave asked.

“No; I don’t know her name even.  Never heard it.”

“Your letter, then, was from the maid?”

“Of course, it was,” Richardson answered.  “If you recognize the writing, you must know that yourself.”

Wingrave looked reflectively seaward.  The matter was not entirely clear to him.  Yet he was sure that this young man was telling the truth, so far as he could divine it.

“Well,” he said, “you have made your attempt and failed.  If fortune had favored you, you might at this moment have been a murderer.  I might have warned you, by the bye, that I am an exceedingly hard man to kill.”