“Gentlemen,” he said, “we are attempting to get to a solution of this thing.  We are trying one man, it is true, but, in a certain sense, we are trying every member of the crew, every person who was on board the ship the night of the crime.  We have a curious situation.  The murderer is before us, either in the prisoner’s dock or among the witnesses.  Let us get at the truth without bickering.”

Mrs. Johns was called, following Miss Lee.  I watched her carefully on the stand.  I had never fathomed Mrs. Johns, or her attitude toward the rest of the party.  I had thought, at the beginning of the cruise, that Vail and she were incipient lovers.  But she had taken his death with a calmness that was close to indifference.  There was something strange and inexplicable in her tigerish championship of Turner—­and it remains inexplicable even now.  I have wondered since—­was she in love with Turner, or was she only a fiery partisan?  I wonder!

She testified with an insolent coolness that clearly irritated the prosecution—­thinking over her replies, refusing to recall certain things, and eyeing the jury with long, slanting glances that set them, according to their type, either wriggling or ogling.

The first questions were the usual ones.  Then: 

“Do you recall the night of the 31st of July?”

“Can you be more specific?”

“I refer to the night when Captain Richardson found the prisoner in the chart-room and ordered him on deck.”

“I recall that, yes.”

“Where were you during the quarrel?”

“I was behind Mr. Vail.”

“Tell us about it, please.”

“It was an ordinary brawl.  The captain knocked the mate down.”

“Did you hear the mate threaten the captain?”

“No.  He went on deck, muttering; I did not hear what was said.”

“After the crimes, what did you do?”

“We established a dead-line at the foot of the forward companion. 
The other was locked.”

“Was there a guard at the top of the companion?”

“Yes; but we trusted no one.”

“Where was Mr. Turner?”

“Ill, in his cabin.”

“How ill?”

“Very.  He was delirious.”

“Did you allow any one down?”

“At first, Leslie, a sort of cabin-boy and deck steward, who seemed to know something of medicine.  Afterward we would not allow him, either.”

“Why?”

“We did not trust him.”

“This Leslie—­why had you asked him to sleep in the storeroom?”

“I—­was afraid.”

“Will you explain why you were afraid?”

“Fear is difficult to explain, isn’t it?  If one knows why one is afraid, one—­er—­generally isn’t.”

“That’s a bit subtle, I’m afraid.  You were afraid, then, without knowing why?”

“Yes.”

“Had you a revolver on board?’”

“Yes.”

“Whose revolver was kept on the cabin table?”