“Didn’t you see anything to suggest that any one was killed and—and thrown overboard?”
“No, Mr Frewen.”
“Go out then and make inquiries, my good lad,” he said piteously; “this suspense is worse than the injury.”
“You forget,” I said quietly.
“Forget? What?”
“That we are prisoners. I couldn’t get out.”
“Yes, yes,” he moaned. “I forgot. My head is all confused and strange. What’s that?”
“Some one knocking gently at the bulk-head,” I whispered, for there were three gentle taps on the wooden partition just opposite to where I was kneeling.
“Then there is some one else a prisoner,” he cried. “Quick, speak to him.”
“Better not speak,” I said; “we may bring in some of Jarette’s gang;” and rising softly, I took out my pocket-knife, and gave three gentle taps with the haft just about the spot where we had heard the sounds.