"Just a moment ... until I get my breath!"
"The steward ...?"
"No, no! Ran out to identify the man, if possible. I'm afraid there's something deadly in your room."
"But Malachi!" The bird was huddled on the bottom of his cage, a bad sign.
Mathison dashed into the cabin, inhaled sharply, and his inhalation thrilled him. An unknown but pleasant odor tingled his nostrils. His glance roved quickly. On the floor, under the port, was a brown box, perforated. He seized it and tossed it through the port-hole, beyond the rail, into the sea. Then he stepped out into the companion.
"Come!... Outside, where the air moves.... Malachi!" Mathison's voice broke. "Hurry!"
She followed him, still clutching the cage and wondering if he would remark her eyes, now without the baffling spectacles. He led her to a spot where the rail opened, took the cage from her, and set it on the deck. He sat down beside it, and she imitated him.
"The poor little bird!" she murmured. Was the wig on straight? She dared not put up her hand to feel.
Mathison stared at Malachi. He should have taken a cabin in the lower deck. Still, he couldn't understand how the port had been opened. He had kept it locked, despite the stuffiness. No matter. Inspection would solve that. Thought he had turned in. He had, until to-night, gone to the cabin regularly at eleven; and they had planned the stroke accordingly. Their only hope of entering the cabin was after midnight, when he was in it. He had liberally subsidized the two Jap stewards. Day and night the companion was guarded. But after midnight the companion was empty.
Clever. To stupefy him, to send him into a deep, artificial slumber, force his door and ransack his belongings leisurely. He was confident the fume was innocuous beyond the sleep-producing effect. But Malachi ... it would have been the death of Malachi.