son. It is the gold of the underwriters who
have insured the Seven Angels, ship and cargo,
that must furnish the bribe that sets him free."

There was a pause. Cautiously I bent my
body forward, without moving my feet, and
could thus see into the great saloon. The door
of the captain's cabin was ajar. Those within
were not visible, but the sound of their voices
reached me with surprising distinctness. They
spoke, in the French tongue, for Spiridion was
not well versed in the Russian language, and of
course every word was clearly comprehensible.
It was with a sound that was between a sob and
a groan that the old captain broke the terrible
silence.

"Cannot she be saved? It will break her
father's heart, and I have broken bread at his
table, and he trusted his child to me the lamb
to the butcher. I don't care so much about the
others —  the men: let them be sacrificed, but the
girl —  I tell you, Spiridion, I have daughters of
my own, and I cannot bear to do this black deed."

"Think of your son," hissed Spiridion, in a
tone that was worthy of a tempting fiend
"your son, sick, dying in the mines, and this
bribe to the minister's favourite sets him free —
gives him back to life and you. This affair over,
all our fortunes are made, your rank in the navy
will be restored, and I will burn before your face
the letters that prove —  you know what —  the
letters relating to the stolen money, and which,
if shown to the Czar —  "

"Hush! hush!" cried the old man. " I
obey, Spiridion, I obey. I am yours, body and
soul, alas! Where is the pen. I will write
the entry in the ship's log-book —  the rest is
your work; but ah! cannot the innocent girl be
spared?"

"No inconvenient witnesses, I thank you,"
sneered Spiridion. " Here is the pen —  write."

At this moment it occurred to me, stupified
as I was with horror and surprise, that in an
instant the plotters would sally forth and detect
me, while, if I ascended the companion, it was
hardly possible but that I should make some
noise, which might provoke fatal suspicion.
Therefore, half instinctively, I stole on tiptoe
into the saloon, crouched behind the crimson
curtains that hung in heavy folds before the
door of Miss Brackley's state-room, and, with
all my speed, was but just in time. The
conspirators passed by me and went on deck, the
captain with an uncertain step, and features in
whose painful working might be read the signs
of mental suffering, the Greek, jaunty and
smooth of mien, but with a dangerous sparkle
in his serpent eye, and a paler cheek than
usual. Scarcely was the coast clear before I
ran to the captain's cabin, the door of which still
stood ajar, and there, sure enough, lay the ship's
log-book open, and with a fresh entry written
on the page before me. The ink was still wet.
What I read ran as follows:

"Coast of Anatolia (here followed a latitude
and a date). On this night, during the middle
watch, the ship Seven Angels, from Odessa to
Liverpool, with corn and oil, was wholly
destroyed by fire, vessel and cargo. Papers —
manifest, logs, and invoices saved. Money lost.
Officers and most of crew escaped to shore in
the large boat. Unfortunately there perished,
by the fire, and by upsetting of a smaller
boat, the two passengers, Mr. Millington and
Miss Marian Brackley, also John Judkins and
Æneas McDonald, able seamen, and Roderick
Sprowle, ordinary seaman, shipped at Odessa.
Fire the result of accident. Cause doubtful."

Here ended this precious entry, the death-
warrant and epitaph, at once, of five human
beings, myself included. No wonder that as I
perused the words I felt my forehead grow moist
with a sickly dew, and that the letters seemed
to dance before my eyes. In vain did I try to
tear myself away. Some terrible fascination
riveted my feet to the floor, my eyes to the page
on which still glistened the wet ink of that last
dread sentence. How long I stood, thunderstruck
and half incredulous, I cannot say, but
the rustle of feminine attire caught my ear, and
I turned my head with a quick start to find
Marian Brackley —  one of the doomed —  standing
in the middle of the saloon, and looking at me.
I had left the door wide open, and was, of
course, plainly visible, in the act, apparently, of
prying into some papers of the captain's.

My impulse to tell Miss Brackley all carried
the day, and most fortunate it was that I had
not time for reflection. Common-place prudence
would have led me to keep the dangerous secret
to myself, but this was no ordinary occasion,
and, to my great comfort, the young girl showed
a fortitude quite unexpected. She did not faint
or weep, though her cheeks faded to ashen
paleness as she read the dreadful words, and listened
to my hasty comments on them. It was evident,
I told her, that the wicked scheme for making
profit by the destruction of the Seven Angels
was deeply laid, and that our deaths, along with
those ot such members of the crew as were
not implicated in the plot, were deemed
necessary to give colour to the plausible tale of
the incendiaries. And now, what was to be
done. We were warned, but what hope had
we. To tax the villains with their perfidy would
be to seal our own fate.

After the first moments of horror, and the
doubt with which the innocent usually receive
the earliest hints of crime in others, Marian
Brackley showed the ready wit of her sex. Still,
her pleasant young voice was harsh, and her
lips white and trembling, as she said:

"It is very, very dreadful. Poor papa, that
loves me so dearly, and mamma, too, at home,
what will they do when they hear —  and you, Mr.
Millington, who have a mother longing to see
you, far off in England, and the poor sailors, all
to be burned to death for the sake of money, —
oh, God help us and forgive them! Mr.
Millington, let us fly, let us escape!"

"Escape! but how?" I answered.

Marian's answer was prompt.

"The sailors, that tall young Scotchman
above all, they are brave fellows, and used to
danger. Go to them, Mr. Millington, and tell