"There, Presence!"—with an indefinite wave of his hand. "By the wireless-house!"
"Why didn't you bring him here?"
"He is tied, Presence, to a—what do you call them?"
"Go watch him," Trent rapped. "I'll be there directly."
Trent slipped into trousers and coat and made his way aft, up a flight of iron stairs, to the turn of the promenade deck. There, in the zone of greenish light cast from the door of the wireless-house, he beheld a startling tableau.
Tambusani, in the grip of two white-uniformed men (from the wireless-house or the deck-watch, Trent surmised), was protesting and gesticulating excitedly toward a huddled figure by the rail. The latter was a native, bound to a stanchion with a pink turban-cloth, the end of which was stuffed into his mouth.
"I can vouch for that man," Trent announced crisply, coming up. "The other fellow"—pointing at the native by the rail—"is a thief. He tried to enter my cabin. My servant happened along and followed him up here."
He saw, then, that one of the uniformed men wore chevrons of gold sparks; the other was a deck-steward. To the latter he spoke first.
"Will you call the captain? I want a word with him.... Thanks." Then to the wireless-operator: "I'll take charge of this fellow now. And you might keep this affair quiet."
The operator smiled wisely (he didn't have to see credentials to spot 'em!) and withdrew into the room where the powerful machines buzzed and crackled.