“Something seems wrong with John, the cook,” I answered. “I only hope he has not made any resistance to my men, who, I promise you, are the most desperate lot that ever cut a throat. For instance, they have locked Williams down in the engine-room. Go over there, Peterson, and quiet him. But tell him that, if he shows a head above the hatch, he is apt to have his brains blown out. Keep quiet now, all of you, until I get this thing in hand.”
“But the boat’s under charter to Mr. Davidson,” demurred Peterson.
“Charter or no charter, Peterson,” said I, “I’m in command here, and it’s no time to argue.”
At this time we heard cries of a feminine sort from the after deck, so I knew that L’Olonnois, as well, had performed the duty assigned to him.
“Stay here, Peterson,” said I. “It’s all right, and I’ll take care of you in every regard. Wait a moment.”
“Who are you?” she demanded
I hurried aft. L’Olonnois stood in the shadow, his back against the saloon door, facing his two prisoners. I also faced them now. The deck lights gave ample illumination, so that I could see her—Helena—face to face and fairly. She turned to me; but now I had pulled up my mask again, and she could have no more than a suspicion as to my identity.
“Who are you?” she demanded. “What right have you here?”
For half a moment I paused. Then I felt a sense of relief as I heard at my elbow the piping voice of L’Olonnois in reply.