“Mr Denning did not accuse him,” said a weak voice, and there close by us stood Mr Denning himself, looking almost ghastly in the pale morning light which stole into the cabin. “Alison Dale could not be such a scoundrel.”
“Thank you, Mr Denning,” I said, grasping the hand he held out to me, as with the other he supported himself by resting, as I saw, upon a double-barrelled gun. “I shan’t defend myself. If I had been the traitor, I should not be here now. I didn’t think I could manage it.”
I was eagerly questioned, and had to explain how I escaped, and to tell all that I knew of the attack, and as I spoke I could not help noticing how distant Mr Frewen and Mr Denning seemed, and I thought that now we were in such trouble they would perhaps become friends.
I had another surprise before I had told all about my escape, for from out of one of the cabins, looking horrible with his head tied up by a stained handkerchief, Mr Brymer appeared, and I saw that he was evidently weak and faint from his wound.
“Can you tell us anything about who is at the head of the mutiny?” he asked. “I was cut down, and could hardly understand anything in the darkness, till I seemed to wake and find myself on the saloon-floor, below the table where I must have crawled.”
I told him that Jarette was at the head of it all.
“Ah, I always mistrusted that man, and the gang he gathered about him. Where is the rest of the crew then; I mean those they did not kill—down in the forecastle?”
I was silent for a few moments, and he repeated his question.
“I’m afraid they have all joined him.”
“No, no; not men like Hampton and Dumlow. They were of a different stamp.”