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ago.”
    The colonel wiped his face. He grunted. Major Jones had his eyes on the cabin ceiling.
    “He overdid it a bit,” Jo stated quietly. “He wanted to appear very stupid, you see. But he wasn’t stupid. He had an alert mind. I talked with him and referred to Major Jones as Captain Jones. He corrected me instantly. A stupid man would very likely not have noted my mistake. He wanted you to think that he knew very little about a ship, Colonel.”
    “But why —did he murder Captain Lintwell?” Colonel Dunbar muttered.
    Jo Gar shook his head. “He didn’t murder Lintwell,” he stated.
    “You misunderstood me, Colonel. I merely said that Burker was confined under guard. He was the accomplice.”
    The commanding officer was stiff in his chair now. Jo Gar lighted his cigarette, inhaled.
    “Your orderly delivered a false message to Captain Lintwell—a verbal message. It was to the effect that you wanted him at the foot of the starboard companionway, on Deck C. The transport was passing close to the cliffs at that moment—at the moment Burker delivered the message. She was nearing the Marine post—and there was a flag to be dipped, and to be saluted by the transport’s whistle. It is a heavy whistle, as you no doubt know.
    “Captain Lintwell was shot through the back of the head, at close range, as he turned his back on the killer. He was shot as the whistle boomed in salute—and the men were all at the rails. Deck C, near the spot where Lintwell was killed, is closed in except for a small space. No one was near—no one but the murderer. Burker was not present, but he was on the deck above. He heard the shot, but it was so faint that even the men beside him missed it. They were all cheering, you see.”
    The colonel swore softly. His eyes were narrowed now. Major Jones arose. His face was white, set grimly.
    “The motive was revenge,” Jo said slowly. “Burker’s job was to get a Colt without any record being made of it, and to deliver a message at the right time. He was paid well for it. He did both jobs. The murderer was—”
    He stopped. The colonel’s eyes were staring into his. Jo Gar did not look away from the colonel. Major Jones stepped past him—his shadow was for a second in the open doorway. The colonel looked up, startled.
    His eyes were staring out towards the deck now, towards the rail.
    Suddenly he jerked from the chair, crying hoarsely. “Jones—stop!”
    Jo Gar did not turn, did not look towards the deck. The muscles of his mouth twitched a little. He heard the cry from somewhere above.
    “Man overboard!”
    Seconds passed. Ship’s bells jangled. The engines shuddered. Jo Gar got up, walked out on the deck. He went to the rail, stared towards the stern. The transport was swinging wide now. He could see the fins. The water was filled with sharks.
    After a while the fins vanished from sight. The transport was coming around in a wide circle. On the bridge ship’s officers were using glasses. The colonel turned towards Jo, his face white, twisted.
    “It was—Major Jones?” he managed thickly.
    Jo Gar nodded. His face was sober, but his voice was still toneless. “A year ago—his wife killed herself,” he reminded. “You know of that, of course. I got it from Major Vane. It happened up in Alaska. She was there on a visit to some friends—army friends. I looked up Captain Lintwell’s service record—you gave me permission to examine all the men’s records, you remember, Colonel. I discovered that Lintwell was in Nome at the same time that Mrs. Jones was there. He had a way with women, you see.”
    The colonel nodded; he looked very tired, much older. Jo Gar spoke on:
    “I asked Captain Hungerford about the steam salute of the Marine post flag. He told me that Major Jones had seemed very interested about that. He had wanted to know how long after the transport started to move—it would take to reach the point of salute. Hungerford had told him not thinking much about it. I