“They explained,” he continued, “that before sailing you had expressed the hope that something really exciting and adventurous would befall the party—­that you were tired of the monotonous humdrum of twentieth-century existence—­ that you regretted the decadence of piracy, and the expunging of romance from the seas.

“Mr. Divine, they told me, was a very wealthy young man, to whom you were engaged to be married, and that he could easily afford the great expense of the rather remarkable hoax we were supposed to be perpetrating.  I saw no harm in taking part in it, especially as I knew nothing of the supposititious purpose of the cruise until just before we reached Honolulu.  Before that I had been led to believe that it was but a pleasure trip to the South Pacific that Mr. Divine intended.

“You see, Miss Harding, that I have been as badly deceived as you.  Won’t you let me help to atone for my error by being your friend?  I can assure you that you will need one whom you can trust amongst this shipload of scoundrels.”

“Who am I to believe?” cried the girl.  “Mr. Divine assures me that he, too, has been forced into this affair, but by threats of death rather than deception.”

The expression on Mr. Theriere’s face was eloquent of sarcastic incredulity.

“How about the note of introduction that I carried to your father from Mr. Divine?” asked Theriere.

“He says that he was compelled to write it at the point of a revolver,” replied the girl.

“Come with me, Miss Harding,” said the officer.  “I think that I may be able to convince you that Mr. Divine is not on any such bad terms with Skipper Simms as would be the case were his story to you true.”

As he spoke he started toward the companionway leading to the officers’ cabins.  Barbara Harding hesitated at the top of the stairway.

“Have no fear, Miss Harding,” Theriere reassured her.  “Remember that I am your friend and that I am merely attempting to prove it to your entire satisfaction.  You owe it to yourself to discover as soon as possible who your friends are aboard this ship, and who your enemies.”

“Very well,” said the girl.  “I can be in no more danger one place aboard her than another.”

Theriere led her directly to his own cabin, cautioning her to silence with upraised forefinger.  Softly, like skulking criminals, they entered the little compartment.  Then Theriere turned and closed the door, slipping the bolt noiselessly as he did so.  Barbara watched him, her heart beating rapidly with fear and suspicion.

“Here,” whispered Theriere, motioning her toward his berth.  “I have found it advantageous to know what goes on beyond this partition.  You will find a small round hole near the head of the berth, about a foot above the bedding.  Put your ear to it and listen—­I think Divine is in there now.”

The girl, still frightened and fearful of the man’s intentions, did, nevertheless, as he bid.  At first she could make out nothing beyond the partition but a confused murmur of voices, and the clink of glass, as of the touch of the neck of a bottle against a goblet.  For a moment she remained in tense silence, her ear pressed to the tiny aperture.  Then, distinctly, she heard the voice of Skipper Simms.