“So!” The tall captain considered him inscrutably, he, the final arbiter of fates.  “You feel bad—­yes?  Veil, you can go below!”

The little group that bore the mate’s body shuffled aft, with the others following like a funeral procession.  A man looked shivering out of the door of the starboard forecastle, and inquired in loud whispers.

“Was ist los?  Sag mal—­was ist denn los?” He put his inquiry to Conroy, who waved him off and passed to the port forecastle on the other side of the deckhouse.

The place was somehow strange, with its double row of empty bunks like vacant coffin-shelves in a vault, but solitude was what he desired.  The slush-lamp swung and stank and made the shadows wander.  From the other side of the bulkhead he could hear stirrings and a murmur of voices as the starboard watch grew aware that something had happened on deck.  Conroy, with his oilskin coat half off, paused to listen for comprehensible words.  The opening of the door behind him startled him, and he spun round to see Slade making a cautious entry.  He recoiled.

“Leave me alone,” he said, in a strangled voice, before the other could speak.  “What are you following me for?  You want to make me out a murderer.  I tell you I never touched him.”

The other stood just within the door, the upper half of his face shadowed by his sou’wester, his thin lips curved in a faint smile.  “No!” he said mockingly.  “You didn’t touch him?  An’ I make no doubts you’d take yer oath of it.  But you shouldn’t have put the pin back in the rail when you was through with it, all the same.”

“There wasn’t any pin there,” said Conroy quickly.  He had backed as far from Slade as he could, and was staring at him with horrified eyes.

“But there would ha’ been if I hadn’t took a look round while you were spinnin’ your yarn to the Old Man,” said Slade.  “I knew you was a fool.”

With a manner as of mild glee he passed his hand into the bosom of his coat, still keeping his sardonic gaze fixed on Conroy.

“Good thing you’ve got me to look after you,” he went on.  “Thinks I, ’He might easy make a mistake that ‘ud cost him dear;’ so I took a look round.  An’ I found this.”  From within his coat he brought forth an iron belaying-pin, and held it out to Conroy.

“See?” His finger pointed to it.  “That’s blood, that is—­and that’s hair.  Look for yourself.  Now I suppose you’ll tell me you never touched him!”

“He hit his head against it when he fell,” protested the younger man.  “He did!  Oh, God, I can’t stand this!”

He sank to a seat on one of the chests and leaned his face against the steel plate of the wall.

“Hit his head,” snorted old Slade.  “Couldn’t you ha’ fixed up a better yarn than that?  What are you snivellin’ at?  D’ye think yer the only man ‘as ever stove in a mate’s head—­an’ him a murderin’ mandriver?  Keep them tales for the Old Man; he believes ’em seemingly; but don’t you come them on me.”