I suppose it must have been three hours later that I sat up in my bunk with a consciousness that something was wrong. I listened, but I could hear no sound, and I rose to my feet, seizing my revolver. Then I understood. It was precisely that there was no sound, or rather that sounds had dwindled, that I awoke. The screw had stopped. I opened the door and went along the passage towards the saloon. Grant was at the foot of the stairs, and I hailed him.
"No, sir, I don't know, sir," he answered me in respect of my questions.
Well, one had to find out at any cost, and I ran up the stairs and got access to the corridor of the state-rooms. Here were gathered the Prince, Barraclough, Lane, and the quartermaster.
"I believe he's been on the P.S.N.C," Lane was saying as I came up. "He ought to be able to pull her through."
"The question is, does he want to?" asked Barraclough grimly.
"Good heavens, who wants to lock his ship in these accursed bilboes?" cried the purser. "It's enough to freeze one's hair stiff. Can you see anything?"
For answer, Barraclough threw open the door that led upon the deck, and it was as if a vent had yawned in the night. It was pitch black, and, what was worse, banks of fog rolled along the thwarts. Lane drew back a step, and shivered.
"Oh! my uncle!" he exclaimed.
"You do not see any sign of them?" inquired the Prince imperturbably.
Barraclough shook his head. "If they're coming they'll have their work cut out to find their way," he said.