Study the situation as she might, she could discover no flaw in this

whimsical madman's plans. He held the crew in his palm, even as he held

Cleigh--by covetousness. Cleigh would never dare send the British after

Cunningham; and the crew would obey him to the letter because that meant

safety and recompense. The Great Adventure Company! Only by an act of God!

And what could possibly happen between now and the arrival of the

Haarlem?

Cleigh had evidently turned in, for through the transoms she saw that the

salon lights were out. She circled the deck house six times, then went up

to the bow and stared down the cutwater at the phosphorescence. Blue

fire! The eternal marvel of the sea!

A hand fell upon her shoulder. She thought it would be Denny's. It was

Flint's!

"Be a good sport, an' give us a kiss!"

She drew back, but he caught her arm. His breath was foul with tobacco and

whisky.

"All right, I'll take it!"

With her free hand she struck him in the face. It was a sound blow, for

Jane was no weakling. That should have warned Flint that a struggle would

not be worth while. But where's the drunken man with caution? The blow

stung Flint equally in flesh and spirit. He would kiss this woman if it

was the last thing he ever did!

Jane fought him savagely, never thinking to call to the bridge. Twice she

escaped, but each time the fool managed to grasp either her waist or her

skirt. Then out of nowhere came the voice of Cunningham: "Flint!"

Dishevelled and breathless, Jane found herself free. She stumbled to the

rail and rested there for a moment. Dimly she could see the two men

enacting a weird shadow dance. Then it came to her that Cunningham would

not be strong enough to vanquish Flint, so she ran aft to rouse Denny.

As she went down the companionway, her knees threatening to give way, she

heard voices, blows, crashings against the partitions. Instinct told her

to seek her cabin and barricade the door; curiosity drove her through the

two darkened salons to the forward passage. Only a single lamp was on, but

that was enough. Anthony Cleigh's iron-gray head towering above a

whirlwind of fists and forearms!

What had happened? This couldn't be real! She was still in her chair on

deck, and what she saw was nightmare! Out of the calm, all in a moment,

this! Where was Denny, if this picture wasn't nightmare? Cunningham above,

struggling with the whisky-maddened Flint--Cleigh fighting in the passage!

Dear God, what had happened?




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