“That settles it,” he smiled grimly to himself.  “I can make a thousand dollars by staying here and I can’t afford to escape.”

On the third day of Monty’s imprisonment the “Flitter” began to roll heavily.  At first he gloated over the discomfort of his guards, who obviously did not like to stay below.  “Subway” Smith and Bragdon were on duty and neither was famous as a good sailor.  When Monty lighted his pipe there was consternation and “Subway” rushed on deck.

“You are a brave man, Joe,” Monty said to the other and blew a cloud of smoke in his direction.  “I knew you would stick to your post.  You wouldn’t leave it even if the ship should go down.”

Bragdon had reached the stage where he dared not speak and was busying himself trying to “breathe with the motion of the boat,” as he had called it.

“By Gad,” continued Monty, relentlessly, “this smoke is getting thick.  Some of this toilet water might help if I sprinkled it about.”

One whiff of the sweet-smelling cologne was enough for Bragdon and he bolted up the companionway, leaving the stateroom door wide open and the prisoner free to go where he pleased.  Monty’s first impulse was to follow, but he checked himself on the threshold.

“Damn that bet with DeMille,” he said to himself, and added aloud to the fleeting guard, “The key, Joe, I dare you to come back and get it!”

But Bragdon was beyond recall and Monty locked the door on the inside and passed the key through the ventilator.

On deck a small part of the company braved the spray in the lee of the deck house, but the others had long since gone below.  The boat was pitching furiously in the ugliest sea it had encountered, and there was anxiety underneath Captain Perry’s mask of unconcern.  DeMille and Dr. Lotless talked in the senseless way men have when they try to conceal their nervousness.  But the women did not respond; they were in no mood for conversation.

Only one of them was quite oblivious to personal discomfort and danger.  Peggy Gray was thinking of the prisoner below.  In a reflection of her own terror, she pictured him crouching in the little state-room, like a doomed criminal awaiting execution, alone, neglected, forgotten, unpitied.  At first she pleaded for the men for his release, but they insisted upon waiting in the hope that a scare might bring him to his senses.  Peggy saw that no help was to be secured from the other women, much as they might care for Brewster’s peace of mind and safety.  Her heart was bitter toward every one responsible for the situation, and there was dark rebellion in her soul.  It culminated finally in a resolve to release Monty Brewster at any cost.

With difficulty she made her way to the stateroom door, clinging to supports at times and then plunging violently away from them.  For some minutes she listened, franctically clutching Brewster’s door and the wall-rail.  There was no guard, and the tumult of the sea drowned every sound within.  Her imagination ran riot when her repeated calls were not answered.