Crawshay's fingers gripped him by the shoulder. His very determined-looking mouth had suddenly become a ring of steel.
"If you don't give me a different answer in ten seconds, Robins, I'll blow your brains all over the cabin!"
The young man broke.
"I was trying to pick up the Blucher," he acknowledged.
"That's exactly what I thought," Crawshay muttered. "That's the game, without a doubt. What are you? An Englishman?"
"I am not!" was the almost fierce reply. "Blast England!"
Crawshay looked into the black eyes, suddenly lit with an ugly fire, and nodded.
"I understand," he said. "Robins, your name, eh? Any relation to the young Sinn Feiner who was shot in Dublin a few months ago?"
"Brother."
"That may save your life later on," Crawshay observed coolly. "Now you can do one of three things. You can come with me to the captain, be put in irons and shot as soon as we land—or before, if the Blucher finds us; or you can send the message which I shall give you; or you can end your days where you sit."