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superstition, maybe, but they say when the wind is blowing you can hear the drowned men screaming for help in the sea. Superstition, perhaps, but the place has more legends about it than Greece. There are sailors who tell you that people live on the place, people who prey on the unfortunate of the sea. They have found bodies, mangled with knives, floating off the beach. What do you think of that?”
    “Silly,” said Folston.
    “Come on, you captain, put in there,” ordered Perry.
    “Couldn’t we just go into the lee?” said Felice Bereau. “I believe it’s the lee, isn’t it, Captain?”
    “For God’s sake, miss,” said Spar, “hang on to the rail if your knees are shaking so you can’t stand.” And he pried her away from him.
    She glared and her nostrils quivered. She went back to stand beside Perry who instantly patted his own chest.
    “Lean here, Felice, old kid. I’ll protect you.”
    Chacktar edged away and retreated down the ladder. Spar turned his back on the group and strode into the opposite wing.
    “You’re fired!” yelled Perry.
    Spar paid him no attention whatever and Perry, angry at being ignored, came along the rail, following Spar, one hand in his pocket.
    “You’re fired!” repeated Perry.
    “All right,” cried Spar, exasperated, “I’m fired. And you can all go down to hell, for all of me.”
    Perry aimed an ill-timed swing at Spar’s jaw and Spar, acting instinctively, ducked and returned the blow. Perry stumbled back, carried by the abrupt roll of the ship, and slid moaning into the starboard wing. Felice Bereau was instantly beside him, bending over him, glaring at Spar like a cornered leopard.
    Peg Mannering stepped back, avoiding Perry. Folston smiled.
    The Venture keeled again, more sharply than before, and something in the decks and the feel of the ship told Spar that something was wrong.
    He went instantly to the tubes and whistled down. He received no response. He blew again. Still no answer.
    The black mate came up and Spar said, “Stay here until I come back.”
    Spar clattered down the ladder and made his way to the engine room hatch. He went through and stared down at the brightly lighted interior, barred and laced with the ladders.
    Folston was at his side, curiously looking down.
    Two oilers were bending over a crumpled body on the floor plates. Spar went on down and an instant later recognized the engineer.
    The man’s skull was crushed and his staring eyes were glazed. Spar examined the wound with swift fingers.
    “Must have fallen,” said Folston, unconcerned.
    “Fallen, hell. He’s been smashed with a pistol butt. Here, you fellows, what happened?”
    The oilers shook their woolly heads. One of them said, “I don’t know. All of a sudden the starboard reduction gear went blooey and then we found Mister Scott lying here like this.”
    “Take him up to his cabin,” said Spar. “We’ll have to bury him at sea. Are you certain the reduction gear is broken?”
    “Yes, sir, we’ve only got the port engine left, and with this blow . . .”
    “Better take my advice,” said Folston. “Put into Hurricane Hill and ride this out in the lee.”
    “Your advice?” said Spar. “So that’s where the poor fools got it, eh?”
    He went back up to the deck. Chacktar was there with a ready question. Spar pushed by and went to the bridge.
    Peg Mannering was there, waiting for him.
    “The engineer’s been murdered,” said Spar, tersely. “We’ve got to put into Hurricane Hill. We can’t ride this with only one engine. And God help me, Miss Mannering, I know that place and the reputation it has.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Nothing,” said Spar, not wishing to frighten her. “Nothing.”
    With a bleak frown he gave the orders to the helm and the yacht went off her course, heading in toward an island where shipwreck was ordinary and where men died without knowing why, and where no survivors were ever found.
    But better the chance, than drowning at