Stirling touched the side of his bunk with both hands, bent, and prepared to roll over. The handcuff chain clicked metallically.
"Quiet!" The sound was faint and came to him as a warning. He waited, his shoulders lifted with his deep breathing, his eyes fastened upon the velvet circle of the open porthole.
A face came slowly into view like the shadow of the moon crossing the disk of the sun, and Stirling dropped his jaw in wonderment. It was far too soft a face for any of the crew. The eyes that stared in at his were deep blue and trustful.
"Quiet!"
"Yes; yes," he answered, feeling a rush of blood to his cheeks.
"Take this quickly."
Stirling rose by straightening his legs and back and stepped over the floor of his cabin, his unshackled hand reaching out. He touched the edge of the porthole, and his fingers groped outside. They came in contact with a tiny pearl-handled revolver. He drew it in and wondered at its diminutive size.
"Quiet, Mr. Stirling!"
He tossed the revolver to his bunk and turned toward the porthole. A cupid's bow of red lips, through which shone white teeth that met in an even row, greeted him.
"What is it?" he asked, huskily. "What—who are you?"