“Jordan, here’s a boatswain’s mate who says your name is Hartmann.”
“It must be so, sir, if he says so,” returned Jordan, sulkily.
“Then you admit your name to be Hartmann?”
“No, sir; but I can see that I am not to get any show whatever, so I may as well give up hope.”
“Runkle,” said Dave, after signalling to the guard to take the prisoner on, “I shall have to arrange for you to be on hand. That young man will undoubtedly be tried for treason. He enlisted under an American name, and your testimony that his real name is Hartmann will be valuable for the prosecution.”
“If young Hartmann is guilty of treason,” Runkle burst out hotly, “I would be glad enough to have the job of drowning him myself.”
“Is Jordan, or Hartmann, a citizen of the United States?”
“He was born in America, I understand, sir, but his father was born in Germany, and, so I was told, never took out naturalization papers.”
When the accused sailor had been locked up, and three secret service men came on board, Dave Darrin aided them in searching for more of the bottles that glowed when dropped in water.
Jordan, or Hartmann, had been employed at times under the ship’s painter. In the paint storeroom the secret service men, after some search, found a board in the floor, back of some boxes, that could be pried up, moving on a hinge. In a hiding place underneath were four bottles identical with the bottle which Darrin had recovered from the water.