A white flag waved feebly from her bridge, and a British destroyer came with a swift run across the smoky seas.
Up the companion-ladder came a rush of marines; and, after them, a revolver in his hand, T. B. Smith, a prosaic Assistant-Commissioner from Scotland Yard, and Van Ingen.
T. B. came upon the count standing with his back to a bulkhead, grimy—bloodstained, but with the butt of a cigarette still glowing in the corner of his mouth.
"You are Count Ivan Poltavo," said T. B., and snapped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists. "I shall take you into custody on a charge of wilful murder, and I caution you that what you now say may be used in evidence against you at your trial."
The count laughed, though faintly.
"You come, as ever, a bit late, my friend."
He flung overboard a tiny phial, which he had held concealed in his hand. He turned to Van Ingen.
"You will find Miss Grayson in the cabin with her father, who is dying. For him, also, Mr. Smith comes a trifle too late."
He staggered backward.
Van Ingen and the detective sprang to his support.