I wondered which of these others might be hers, and passed silently from door to door, vaguely hoping for some sign of guidance.  They were all tightly closed, and I dare not try the locks, as I was certain one, at least, of the under officers would be sleeping below.  My round had brought me to the second door on the port side when, in the dim light, I perceived something lying at my feet, and stooped down to better determine its character.  It was the end of a very narrow light blue ribbon, apparently caught beneath the door.  Assured that she was the only one of her sex aboard, I drew the strip forth, fondled it, imagined I had seen it before, struggling with a desire to make myself known.  The door before which I hesitated was numbered “5.”  Whether by accident, or design, she had left the one clew I most needed.  Indeed, at the moment, I believed the ribbon had been purposely dropped.  That last meeting of our eyes had reassured her of my loyalty; with the quick intuition of a woman she had comprehended the truth, and this ribbon, apparently carelessly dropped, was for my guidance.  I thrust it into my pocket, but the soft touch of the silk seemed to bring back to me a sense of caution.  I knew the door was locked, and assured myself there was no space beneath.  If I was to communicate with her, other means must be employed.  What?  This was the second stateroom on the port side.  Judging from my own, the width of each room would be about six feet.  There ought to be no difficulty in locating her porthole from the deck above, nor in attracting her attention.

The one thing I desired now was to reestablish myself fully in her confidence, assure her I was at liberty on board, able and willing to be of service.  This necessity overshadowed all else.  If I could discover means of communication we could plan hopefully, assured of cooperation.  And this seemed possible, the way to its accomplishment open.  Shadowed from observation by the thick butt of the after-mast, I wrote a few lines hastily on the back of an envelope, thrust it into my pocket, and ventured up the companion stairs.  Reaching the top, and stealing to one side out of the dim range light, I took hasty survey of the deck.  It was a dark night, although a few stars were visible, and the Sea Gull was steaming slowly through a fairly rough sea, pounding against her port quarter.  Little twinkles of light were visible off the port side, so numerous as to make me suspicion land, while a narrow strip of moon, barely exposed beneath an edge of cloud, convinced me our course was almost directly east.  This was strange if the boat’s destination was Spanish Honduras, and the Captain was, as he contended, desirous of making a swift passage.  I recall this flash of thought, yet my attention almost instantly reverted elsewhere.  The closer we hugged the shore the greater the opportunity for escape, the more vital the necessity of immediately establishing communication with the fair prisoner below.