in violence; there was less noise and turmoil.  The movement of the vessel began to lull him into forgetfulness, his vigilance relapsed, his mind drifting in thought.  He endeavoured to arouse himself, to keep awake, but finally fatigue conquered, and he sank into a deep sleep.  He had no knowledge of how long this slumber lasted, or what suddenly awakened him, so startled at the moment that he sat up in the berth, staring into the blackness.  Was it a dream, or a reality?  Had some one spoken?  He could neither see nor hear anything; the boat seemed to be motionless, not even throbbing now to the beat of the engine—­the silence was uncanny.  It seemed to him his own heart had stopped, so still it was, and he felt a cold perspiration break out on his flesh.  Something was wrong, must be wrong.  Where were they—­at anchor in some harbour? or helplessly adrift on the lake?  The sea must have gone down; waves no longer dashed against the side, and there was no shriek of wind overhead; the yacht rocked gently, as though the swell of the sea no longer buffeted her; there was no sound of action on the deck above.  Then he heard a voice again, outside, reaching him this time plainly through the open port.

“All set, Mapes,” it said sharply.  “Come on down.  You finished the job?”

“Ay, ay, sir,” the answer gruff, but with a tinge of excitement in the tone.  “She’s fixed all right.  Hold hard, now, mate.”

West, thoroughly aroused, realizing instantly the importance of this new move, and as quickly suspecting its purpose, leaped to the port-hole, and, endeavoured to gain a glimpse without.  The night was still intensely black, the sky overcast and starless, the only glimmer of light the reflecting of foam tipped surges.  If land was near it remained invisible, nor could he even be sure of the close proximity of a boat.  There seemed to be a smudge there at the left, a black, lumping shadow, shapeless against the background of sea; yet he could not be sure.  Even as he gazed at it doubtfully, the dim object disappeared, fading away like a mirage.  No sound reached him to cause the vision to seem real—­no voice, no creak of oars, no flap of a sail; yet something told him that mysterious shadow was a boat, a boat filled with men, creeping away silently into the night, fleeing from the yacht, and vanishing into the darkness.

My God, what could such action mean?  Why were these fellows deserting the Seminole, leaving him helpless aboard, locked into that stateroom?  Was the yacht disabled? sinking? and had they merely forgotten him in their own eagerness to escape?  Were they in mid-lake? or close to some point of land?  Had every one gone, leaving the vessel totally abandoned, a wreck buffeted by the surges, doomed to go down, unseen, its final fate unknown?  Unknown!  The word rising to his brain was the answer.  There was the crest of the plot.  What could be easier, or safer, than this ending?  Who would ever know the truth?  Who could ever prove anything, even if they suspected?  And who was there to suspect?