“First stateroom, second cabin,” said a new voice, sharply.  “Lively now.”

“Shall we unloose the ropes, sir?”

“Yes; fasten the door, and leave a guard.  Stow away the boat, Broussard.  Everything ready, Captain.”

I went down a broad stairway, shining brass rails on either side, which led to a spacious after-cabin.  A table extended its full length, already set for a meal, and a round-faced negro, in white serving jacket, grinned at me, as the men pressed me between them into a narrow passage leading forward.  A moment later I was unceremoniously thrust into a small apartment on the right, the ropes about my wrists loosened, and the door shut and locked behind me.  For perhaps five minutes I lay where I had been so unceremoniously dropped, weakened by loss of blood, and dazed by the rapidity of events.  I found it hard to adjust my faculties to this new situation.  I knew what had occurred, but into whose hands I had fallen, and what was the purpose of this outrage, was beyond my comprehension.  One thing, however, was sufficiently clear—­these men were playing for big stakes, and would hesitate at nothing to accomplish their purpose.  They had already killed without remorse, and that I still survived was itself a mere accident.  Yet the very fact that I lived yielded me fresh confidence, a fatalistic belief that my life had thus been spared for a specific purpose.  It might yet be my privilege to foil these villains, and rescue Mrs. Henley.  It was my belief she was also on board this vessel.  I had no reason to assume this, except the wording of Broussard’s report which I had overheard.  But she was a prisoner, and this vessel would be the most likely place for her to be confined.  I sat up, my flesh burning, and stared about.  The light shining through the single closed port was dim, convincing me the sun had already set, yet I could perceive the few furnishings of that interior.  These consisted merely of a double berth, a blanket spread over the lower mattress, and a four-legged stool.  Hooks, empty, decorated the walls, and a small lamp dangled from the overhead beam.  As I got to my feet I could feel a faint throb of the engine, and realized we were moving slowly through the water.  The glass of the porthole was thick, but clear.  I knelt on the berth, and looked out, dimly perceiving the shore-line slipping past, with an ever-broadening stretch of water intervening.  Then I sat down helplessly on the stool, and waited for something to occur.  Escape was impossible; I could only hope for some movement on the part of my captors.