"And naow, dearie, I have to do the cooking, because that blasted cook of ours went ashore and didn't show up again. Taking care of your poor father has 'baout worn me daown, and I know yeou'll be willing to look after him a bit——"
"Of course! I meant to speak to you about it before this!" exclaimed Florence. "If you'll show me——"
"Come right along with me. He ain't much trouble, poor man, and it's the least we can do to make him comfortable. If there's anything yeou want done, too, just call steward and tell him."
"We'll be back soon, Tom dear," said Florence, and departed with Mrs. Pontifex.
When the door closed, Tom Dennis sat motionless for a moment, then raised his head. He slipped to the deck and stood upright, holding to the bunk. A slow smile crept into his chalky features, and presently he stretched himself luxuriantly.
"Passing off! I'm bad, but not near so bad as I might be," he commented audibly. "It's a good thing for me that I was raised on the Maine coast, and know ships and the sea as well as anybody! They don't know it, however, and Florence won't tell. Now, why the deuce have they kidnapped us this way?"
Frowning he sipped some cold coffee from a pot left by the steward an hour earlier, Then he went to his huge trunk of a grip, its telescopic sides fat almost to bursting, which lay at the head of the bunk.
He unlocked the big grip and opened it. Then he discarded his shirt and collar, the same which he had worn the preceding day, and slipped into a grey flannel shirt which he took from the suitcase. His tie knotted about the collar, he returned to the grip and knelt above it. Drawing forth some clothes, he threw them carelessly on the floor—threw out more, until a pile of rumpled garments lay beside him. Then he produced a large flat package and two small ones. He opened these, disclosing six large phonograph records, a reproducer, and a box of needles. Then, from within the suitcase he lifted out a small hornless phonograph itself. He stared down at it and chuckled.
"I told Ericksen the truth when I said I'd given that square suitcase to the porter," he reflected, as he fitted the reproducer to the machine. "But I didn't mention that I'd kept the things in the suitcase."
Just why he had done this, Tom Dennis was by no means certain, except that his suspicions of Ericksen had never quite downed. It was very curious that the sole baggage of the assassin had consisted of this phonograph outfit. Bo'sun Joe's interest in the matter was also curious; his presence in the compartment belonging to the assassin had never ceased to trouble Tom Dennis. More than he cared to admit, Dennis suspected that there was, or had been, some definite relation, and by no means an unfriendly one, between Ericksen and the would-be murderer.