"That's true," said Locke. He was staring at the bullet hole in the wall. "And worst of all there'd be the reporters. Three-inch headlines! I'm not for _that_! I agree with you. We'll say nothing."
Captain Francis Newcombe inspected Locke's back.
"How much of a crew do you carry on this fifty-footer of yours?" he inquired softly.
"Why not necessarily any one but the two of us and your man, if you'll come along." Howard Locke turned around suddenly to face the other. "Why?"
"Well," said Captain Francis Newcombe quietly, "under those conditions, as the two victims of to-night, we'd form a sort of mutual protective society--and perhaps, if the offer is still open, it would be the safest way for me to reach my destination. There wouldn't be any windows for any one to fire through."
"That's a go!" he said. "I'm very keen to make the trip with you. And if all this has decided it, I'm glad it's happened. That's fine! And now--what are you going to do for the rest of the night?"
"Why, I'm going to bed," said Captain Francis Newcombe casually; "and at the risk of appearing inhospitable, I should advise you to do likewise."
"Right!" agreed Locke. "There's nothing else to do." He stepped toward the door, but paused, staring at the bullet mark in the wall again.
"That bullet hole seems to fascinate you," smiled Captain Francis Newcombe.
"Yes," said Locke, as he opened the door. "I was thinking what a rotten thing it was to be fired at cold-bloodedly in the dark. Good-night!"
Captain Francis Newcombe did not go to bed. With the light out again, he sat there on the bunk.
Long minutes passed; they drifted into hours.
The man's figure became crouched, became a shape that lost human semblance, that was like unto some creature huddled in its lair; and the face was no longer human, for upon it was stamped the passions of hell; and the head became cocked curiously sideways in a strained attitude of attention, as though listening, listening, listening, always listening.
And there came a time when he spoke aloud, and called out hoarsely:
"Who's that? Who's whispering there? Who's calling Shadow Varne ... Shadow Varne ... Shadow Varne...."
And in answer the ship's bell struck the hour of dawn.
It was a night of white moonlight; a languorous night. It was a night of impenetrable shadows, deep and black; and, where light and shadow met and merged, the treetops were fringed against the sky in tracery as delicate as a cameo. And there was fragrance in the air, exotic, exquisite, the fragrance of growing things, of semi-tropical flowers and trees and shrubs. And very faint and soft there fell upon the ear the gentle lapping of the water on the shore, as though in her mother tenderness nature were breathing a lullaby over her sea-cradled isle.