“Well, Mr. Bayne,” he greeted me, “never again for mine!  If I ever see the end of this trip,—­if you call it a trip; I call it merry hades,—­believe me, I’ll sell something hereafter that I can sell on land.  I’m a crackerjack of a salesman, if I do say it myself.  Once I got started talking I could get a man down below to buy a hot toddy and a set of flannels—­and I wish I’d gone down there and done it before I ever saw this boat.”

Unmoved, I leaned on the railing and watched the blue swells break.  McGuntrie took a turn or two.  In the ship’s library he had discovered a manual entitled “How to Swim,” and he was now attempting between laments to memorize its salient points.

“The first essay is best made in water of not less than fifty degrees Fahrenheit, and not more than four feet in depth,” he gabbled, and then broke off to gaze at the sea about us, chilly in temperature, and countless fathoms deep.  “Oh, what’s the use?  What the blue blazes does it matter?” he cried hysterically.  “I tell you that U-boat that sank the San Pietro is laying for us.  In about an hour you’ll see a periscope bob up out there.  Then we’ll send out an S.O.S., and the next thing you know we’ll sink with all on board.”

We had as yet escaped this doom when toward six o’clock we approached Gibraltar, running beneath a crimson sunset and between misty purple shores.  On one hand lay Africa, on the other the Moorish country, both shrouded in a soft haze and edged with snowy foam.  Down below the soldiers of Italy were singing.  A merchantman of belligerent nationality, our ship proudly flew its flag again.  Indeed, had it failed to do so, the British patrol-boats would long since have known the reason why.

It was growing dark when I turned to find Van Blarcom at my elbow.

“I didn’t see you,” I commented rather shortly.  I don’t like people to creep up beside me like cats.

“No,” he responded.  “I’ve been waiting quite a while.  I didn’t want to disturb you, but the fact is I’d like a word with you, Mr. Bayne.”

I eyed him with curiosity.  He was inscrutable, this quiet, alert, efficient-looking man.  Take, for instance, his present manner, half self-assured, half respectfully apologetic—­what grade in life did it fit?

“Well, here I am,” I said briefly as I struck a match.

“I’ve thought it over a good bit,” he went on, apparently in self-justification.  “I don’t know how you will take it, but I’ll chance it just the same.  If I don’t give you a hint, you don’t get a square deal.  That’s my attitude.  Did you ever hear of Franz von Blenheim, Mr. Bayne?”

“Eh?” The question seemed distinctly irrelevant—­and yet where had I heard that name, not very long ago?