“Mr Denning!” I said excitedly, as I turned to my companion, whose face looked terrible in its rage and despair.
“Whose voice was that, Dale?” he cried wildly.
“Mr Denning’s, I’m sure.”
“No, no, the lady’s cry.”
“I—I—don’t know,” I stammered.
“You do—you do!” he cried wildly, as he caught me by the breast; “speak out.”
“I—I half fancied it was Miss Denning shrieked out,” I faltered.
“Yes,” he groaned. “Yes, and I am shut up like this. Is there no way of escape?”
And all this while the angry muttering and talking went on, Mr Denning evidently bitterly upbraiding Jarette, and the latter mockingly defiant, and uttering what sounded like contemptuous retorts. Then a door was banged again loudly, and we stood listening, Mr Frewen with his forehead resting against the panel and his hands clenched, while his face was all drawn into puckers and wrinkles as if he was suffering the most intense agony.
And as we listened, I, horror-stricken, and in the full belief that poor Miss Denning had been shot, perhaps in trying to save her brother, a couple more of the cabin-doors were opened and closed; then there was a good deal of talking and the giving of orders. At last, when we felt that Jarette and his men were going forward once again to their quarters in the forecastle, leaving us in horrible suspense, a heavy step approached our door, which was opened, and Hampton appeared.