There was nothing to see but the dead man, lying on his face motionless, blood still oozing from an ugly knife wound in his back.  We needed to ask no questions, imagine nothing—­the overturned chair, the stricken sailor told the whole story.  He had been treacherously stuck from behind, the blade driven home by a strong hand, and was dead before he fell to the deck.  It had been silent, vengeful murder, and the assassin had left no trace.  Who could it have been?  Not Gunsaules surely—­the steward lacked both nerve and strength for such a deed.  Then there was but one to suspect—­Silva Sanchez!  I stood there dumb, gazing at the dead man, realizing all this dimly, yet conscious only of thankfulness that the victim had not been Dorothy Fairfax.

“He’s dead, sir,” growled Watkins, turning the fellow over with his foot, until the ghastly face stared up at the deck beams overhead.  “Stabbed to the heart frum behind.  Look a yere—­that wus sum slash.  Who, the hell do yer suppose did it?”

“That is ours to find out.  The deed has just been done, for blood is still flowing.  Let him alone Watkins and come with me—­the murderer can’t be far off.”

I flung open the pantry door, but one glance inside told me that Gunsaules had vanished.  On the deck lay the strands of rope with which he had been secured—–­they had been severed by a sharp knife, the ends discolored with blood stains.  I held these out to Watkins.

“Cut since the murder,” I said harshly, “and by the same knife.”

“Who was in here, sir.”

“The steward, Gunsaules.  He didn’t do the job, but I believe I know who did.  We’ll try the port stateroom aft.  Stand by; there’s likely to be two of them.”

The door was unlocked and opened noiselessly, but I took no chances, thinking this possibly a ruse.  Gloomy as the interior appeared in the weird light with banks of fog driving against the ports, a single swift glance convinced me it was deserted.  There was no place for a man to hide, yet I could not convince myself of its emptiness until I peered into the disarranged bunk, and surveyed every shadowed corner.  Watkins watched me curiously, turning his head occasionally to stare out into the lighted cabin behind.  The situation baffled me completely—­that Sanchez had done the deed, informed by the steward of what was occurring on board and rendered desperate by that report, was clear enough in my mind; but what had become of the man?  He could not have escaped overboard, as the ports were screwed down, and his appearance on the open deck above would have surely been observed.  His place of concealment must remain aft in the cabin, and if so, he must be discovered by immediate search.  I ordered Watkins to take the lantern from the rack and follow me from stateroom to stateroom.  We began with Dorothy’s, finding none of them locked until we came to where Manuel was held prisoner.  All were empty and in disorder, while bending my ear to the locked door, I could distinguish the heavy breathing of its inmate, the fellow was evidently sound asleep.