A look of intense relief shot across the first-officer’s quiet face.

“That means ‘All’s well,’” he said, raising his voice a little.  “Let us congratulate ourselves and turn in!”

“There has been danger, then, Mr. Gresley?” queried Mrs. Granville, a lady who liked to know everything in detail.

Mr. Gresley laughed with an indifference perfectly unaffected.  “I believe the engineers thought so,” he said.  “I must refer you to them for particulars.  Anyhow, it’s all right now.  I am going to tell the steward to bring coffee.”

He got up leisurely and strolled away.

There was a slight commotion on the other side of the door as he opened it, a giggle that sounded rather hysterical.  A moment later Lady Jane Grey; her head-gear gone, her shorn curls looking absurdly frivolous, walked mincingly into the saloon and subsided upon the nearest seat.  She was attended by Captain Fisher, who looked anxious.

“Such a misfortune!” she remarked, in a squeaky voice that sounded, somehow, a horrible strain.  “I have been shut up in the Tower and have only just escaped.  I trust I am not too late for my execution.  I’m afraid I have kept you all waiting.”

All the heaviness of misgiving passed out of the atmosphere in a burst of merriment.

“Where on earth have you been hiding?” shouted Major Granville.  “I believe you have been playing the fool with us, you rascal.”

“I!” cried Charlie.  “My dear sir, what are you thinking of?  If you were to breathe such a suspicion as that to the captain he would clap me in irons for the rest of the voyage.”

“You have been in the engine-room for all that,” said Mrs. Langdale, whose powers of observation were very keen.  “Look at your skirt!”

Charlie glanced at the garment in question.  It was certainly the worse for wear.  There were some curious patches in the front that had the appearance of oil stains.

“That’ll be all right!” he said cheerfully.  “I had a fright and tumbled upstairs.  Skirts are beastly awkward things to run away in, aren’t they, Mrs. Langdale?  Well, good-night all!  I’m going to bed.”

He got up with the words, grinned at everyone collectively, picked up the injured skirt with exaggerated care, and stepped out of the saloon.

Mrs. Langdale looked after him, half-laughing, yet with a touch of concern.

“He looks queer,” she remarked to Molly, who was standing by her.  “Quite white and shaky.  I believe something has happened to him.  He has hurt himself in some way.”

But Molly was feeling peculiarly indignant at that moment, though not on account of her ruined skirt.

“He’s a silly poltroon!” she said with emphasis, and walked stiffly away.

Charlie Cleveland had recovered from his serious fit even sooner than she had thought possible; and, though she had made it sufficiently clear to him that as a serious suitor he was utterly unwelcome, she was intensely angry with him for having so swiftly resumed his customary gay spirits.