"Where on earth have you been hiding?" shouted Major Granville. "I believe you have been playing the fool with us, you rascal."
"I!" cried Charlie. "My dear sir, what are you thinking of? If you were to breathe such a suspicion as that to the captain he would clap me in irons for the rest of the voyage."
"You have been in the engine-room for all that," said Mrs. Langdale, whose powers of observation were very keen. "Look at your skirt!"
Charlie glanced at the garment in question. It was certainly the worse for wear. There were some curious patches in the front that had the appearance of oil stains.
"That'll be all right!" he said cheerfully. "I had a fright and tumbled upstairs. Skirts are beastly awkward things to run away in, aren't they, Mrs. Langdale? Well, good-night all! I'm going to bed."
He got up with the words, grinned at everyone collectively, picked up the injured skirt with exaggerated care, and stepped out of the saloon.
Mrs. Langdale looked after him, half-laughing, yet with a touch of concern.
"He looks queer," she remarked to Molly, who was standing by her. "Quite white and shaky. I believe something has happened to him. He has hurt himself in some way."
But Molly was feeling peculiarly indignant at that moment, though not on account of her ruined skirt.
"He's a silly poltroon!" she said with emphasis, and walked stiffly away.