“I see,” I said slowly.  “They want to bribe me.”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“That is a nasty word.  They might wish to buy—­a key or two that you carry.”

“The storeroom key, of course.  But what other?”

She looked around—­we were alone.  A light breeze filled the sails and flicked the end of a scarf she wore against my face.

“The key to the captain’s cabin,” she said, very low.

That was what they wished to buy:  the incriminating key to the storeroom, found on Turner’s floor, and access to the axe, with its telltale prints on the handle.

The stewardess saw my face harden, and put her hand on my arm.

“Now I am afraid of you!” she cried:  “When you look like that!”

“Mrs. Sloane,” I said, “I do not know that you were asked to do this—­I think not.  But if you were, say for me what I am willing to say for myself:  I shall tell what I know, and there is not money enough in the world to prevent my telling it straight.  The right man is going to be punished, and the key to the storeroom will be given to the police, and to no one else.”

“But—­the other key?”

“That is not in my keeping.”

“I do not believe you!”

“I am sorry,” I said shortly.  “As a matter of fact, Burns has that.”

By the look of triumph in her eyes I knew I had told her what she wanted to know.  She went below soon after, and I warned Burns that he would probably be approached in the same way.

“Not that I am afraid,” I added.  “But keep the little Sloane woman at a distance.  She’s quite capable of mesmerizing you with her eyes and robbing you with her hands at the same time.”

“I’d rather you’d carry it,” he said, “although I’m not afraid of the lady.  It’s not likely, after—­”

He did not finish, but he glanced aft toward the jollyboat.  Poor Burns!  I believe he had really cared for the Danish girl.  Perhaps I was foolish, but I refused to take the key from him; I felt sure he could be trusted.

The murders had been committed on the early morning of Wednesday, the 12th.  It was on the following Tuesday that Mrs. Sloane and I had our little conversation on deck, and on Wednesday we came up with the Buenos Aires.

It was on Friday, therefore, two days after the cargo steamer had slid over the edge of the ocean, and left us, motionless, a painted ship upon a painted sea, that the incident happened that completed the demoralization of the crew.

For almost a week the lookouts had reported “All’s well” in response to the striking of the ship’s bell.  The hysteria, as Burns and I dubbed it, of the white figure had died away as the men’s nerves grew less irritated.  Although we had found no absolute explanation of the marlinespike, an obvious one suggested itself.  The men, although giving up their weapons without protest, had grumbled somewhat over being left without means of defense.  It was entirely possible, we agreed, that the marlinespike had been so disposed, as some seaman’s resort in time of need.