tragic note in mourning his watch and valuables, thus gradually working himself up to a dizzy pitch when he came to the last trouble.
"So that's the thief I was supposed to have aboard, eh?" he wanted to know. "A common drunk, who throws fifty-thousand-pound emeralds overboard, who — who—"
Baldwin said gloomily: "You see now why that young Warren pretended to act like a madman, sir? He's more or less engaged to the girl, they tell me. Well, they made a good job of it shielding him. But I've got to admit we've been a bit rough on—"
"Sir," said a new voice, "Lord Sturton's compliments, sir, and—"
"Go on," sneered the captain, with a sort of heavy-stage-despair. "Don't stop there. Speak up, will you? Let's hear it!"
"Well, sir — he — he says for you to go to hell, sir…
"What?"
"He says — I'm only repeating it — he says you're drunk, sir. He says nobody's stolen his emerald, and he got it out and showed it to me to prove it. He's in a bit of a temper, sir. He says if he hears one more word about that bleeding emerald — if anybody makes a row or so much as mentions that bleeding emerald to him again — he'll have your papers and sue the line for a hundred thousand pounds. That's a fact."
"Here, Mitchell!" snapped Baldwin. "Don't stand there like a dummy! Come and give me a hand with the commander… Get some brandy or something. Hurry, damn you, hurry!"
There was a sound of running footsteps. Then up from behind Morgan, an expression of dreamy triumph on his face, rose Curtis Warren full panoplied in Moorish arms. He pushed past the others and ascended the ladder. Drawing his bejewelled cloak about him, shooting back the cuffs of his chain mail, he adjusted the spiked helmet rakishly over the curls of his wig. He drew himself up with a haughty gesture. Before the bleary eyes of the Queen Victoria's skipper, who was reeling dumbly against the rail and almost toppling overboard, Warren strode forward with ringing footfalls.