“I don’t know, sir; perhaps half an hour.”
Cleigh stalked to the door, but there he turned, 175 and for the first time since Cunningham had taken the yacht Cleigh looked directly, with grim intentness, into his enemy’s eyes.
“Battle, murder, and sudden death!” Cunningham laughed. “You don’t have to tell me, Cleigh! I can see it in your eyes. If Miss Norman wants to come here and ask questions, I’m the last man to prevent her.”
Cleigh thumped down the ladder. Cunningham was right—there was murder in his heart. He hurried into the main salon, and there he found Jane and Dennison conversing.
“Miss Norman, despite my warning you went up to the chart house.”
“I had some questions to ask.”
“I forbid you emphatically. I am responsible for you.”
“I am no longer your prisoner, Mr. Cleigh; I am Mr. Cunningham’s.”
“You went up there alone?” demanded Dennison.
“Why not? I’m not afraid. He will not break his word to me.”