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blood!”
    “You’ve got to face realities!” said Mme. Storey. “If you don’t go ashore
to-morrow, and stay ashore, I’ll have to tell Horace Laghet who you are.
That’s my job.”
    There was no answer.
    “Adele isn’t worth it,” she said softly.
    He hung his head.
    “You know it,” she murmured compassionately, “but you’re in hell just the
same.”
    A spasm of intolerable pain twisted his face. His endurance snapped. “Aah!
What is it to you?” he snarled, jumping up. “You think you have me on the
grill, don’t you? Good sport to sit there and watch a man squirm! I know
women…Well, to hell with you! To hell with you! I won’t leave this vessel
without my wife, and that’s flat!”
    Mme. Storey shrugged and spread out her hands.
    Holder’s voice scaled up hysterically. “Go ahead and tell Laghet!” he
cried. “Tell him! Tell him! I have plenty of friends aboard. The crew is with
me. They’re men, not dogs. And if Laghet slays a finger on me they’ll mutiny.
Do you know what that means? Mutiny! It will sweep you all overboard! If you
know what’s good for you, you’ll be the one to go ashore to-morrow. I’ve
warned you now! Go ashore and stay ashore, if you ever want to see New York
again.” Shaking and gasping, he turned and rattled the door.
    “Let him out,” said Mme. Storey quietly.
    I unlocked the door and he ran down the corridor. I turned and faced my
employer.
    “You dare not tell Laghet,” I said. “Holder has the whip-hand over us.
What can you do?”
    “It appears to be up to Adele,” she said, smiling enigmatically. “I will
go and talk to her.”
----
VII. — AT WILLEMSTAD
    ON the following day after lunch the Buccaneer cast
anchor off the port of Willemstad in the island of Curaçao. There is a
dangerous current off the mouth of the harbour and as Horace Laghet intended
to remain only long enough to pick up Martin Coade, his secretary, they
didn’t want to take the big yacht inside.
    After six days at sea the sight of land was grateful to the eye though it
was but a brown and treeless island. However, the beach was of the whitest,
the sky of the bluest, and the town picturesque enough with its steep-roofed
Dutch houses bordering the quays. In designing those roofs the prudent Dutch
were not taking any chances of a heavy snowfall.
    It put Horace in a temper to learn that the liner Orizaba which was
bringing Martin Coade from Europe had not yet arrived. “Nothing to see in
this damned hole but oil refineries,” he growled.
    Nevertheless the indefatigable Adrian insisted on getting up a shore
party. Horace refused to accompany them, and Mme. Storey begged off on the
pretext of having letters to write. All the others went ashore in the launch.
Adele’s pretty face was drawn and haggard under the careful make-up. She had
put herself into Mme. Storey’s hands the night before, and during the morning
had smuggled a small bag containing some clothes into our cabin.
    About the same time another launch set off from the yacht carrying a party
of sailors who had been granted four hours’ shore leave. Harry Holder was
amongst them. Adele had communicated with him.
    About an hour later the Orizaba hove in sight, and Mme. Storey sent
word on deck asking to be carried ashore. She carried Adele’s little bag.
    Horace was on deck, and his eyes narrowed at the sight of the bag. “Are
you leaving us?” he asked, laughing. It had an ugly ring.
    “Not yet,” she answered, smiling. “I have a lot of stuff to send in the
mail, and this is the easiest way to carry it.”
    He only half believed her, and for a moment I thought she would be obliged
to open her bag like a departing servant. However, she smiled him down.
    “Do you want company?” he asked with a hang-dog air.
    This was awkward. “Just as you like,” she said calmly. “I shall be pretty
busy at the post and the cable office.”
    He turned away sorely. “We sail at nine,” he