I measured the height of the bell from the bed.  It was well above, and to one side—­a smear rather than a print, too indeterminate to be of any value, sinister, cruel.

“He didn’t do that, Charlie,” I said.  “He couldn’t have got up to it after—­That is the murderer’s mark.  He leaned there, one hand against the wall, to look down at his work.  And, without knowing it, he pressed the button that roused the two women.”

He had not heard the story of Henrietta Sloane, and, as we waited, I told him.  Some of the tension was relaxing.  He tried, in his argumentative German way, to drag me into a discussion as to the foreordination of a death that resulted from an accidental ringing of a bell.  But my ears were alert for the voices near by, and soon Miss Lee opened the door.

Turner was sitting on his bunk.  He had made an attempt to shave, and had cut his chin severely.  He was in a dressing-gown, and was holding a handkerchief to his face; he peered at me over it with red-rimmed eyes.

“This—­this is horrible, Leslie,” he said.  “I can hardly believe it.”

“It is true, Mr. Turner.”

He took the handkerchief away and looked to see if the bleeding had stopped.  I believe he intended to impress us both with his coolness, but it was an unfortunate attempt.  His lips, relieved of the pressure, were twitching; his nerveless fingers could hardly refold the handkerchief.

“Wh-why was I not—­called at once?” he demanded.

“I notified you.  You were—­you must have gone to sleep again.”

“I don’t believe you called me.  You’re—­lying, aren’t you?” He got up, steadying himself by the wall, and swaying dizzily to the motion of the ship.  “You shut me off down here, and then run things your own damned way.”  He turned on Miss Lee.  “Where’s Helen?”

“In her room, Marsh.  She has one of her headaches.  Please don’t disturb her.”

“Where’s Williams?” He turned to me.

“I can get him for you.”

“Tell him to bring me a highball.  My mouth’s sticky.”  He ran his tongue over his dry lips.  “And—­take a message from me to Richardson—­” He stopped, startled.  Indeed, Miss Lee and I had both started.  “To who’s running the boat, anyhow?  Singleton?”

“Mr. Singleton is a prisoner in the forward house,” I said gravely.

The effect of this was astonishing.  He stared at us both, and, finding corroboration in Miss Lee’s face, his own took on an instant expression of relief.  He dropped to the side of the bed, and his color came slowly back.  He even smiled—­a crafty grin that was inexpressibly horrible.

“Singleton!” he said.  “Why do they—­how do they know it was he?”

“He had quarreled with the captain last night, and he was on duty at the time of the when the thing happened.  The man at the wheel claims to have seen him in the chartroom just before, and there was other evidence, I believe.  The lookout saw him forward, with something—­possibly the axe.  Not decisive, of course, but enough to justify putting him in irons.  Somebody did it, and the murderer is on board, Mr. Turner.”