Dixon broke into a laugh.
“Awfully decent of you!” he said. “Why do you carry a revolver if you think it foolish to use it?”
“I do not think it foolish to use it,” Mr. Smith answered deliberately. “But I had meant it for myself—if I failed. Then, in my excitement, I fought with it. That was foolish. One cannot always think quickly enough.”
“I’m glad you aimed too quickly!” said Dixon grimly. “It might have been awkward for some of us if you hadn’t——” He broke off, with a shout. “Watch him!”
Mr. Smith had sprung towards the port-hole, a dark object in his hand. Jim was just too quick for him. He caught the up-raised arm. The little man fought fiercely and silently for a moment; then he gave in, yielding what he held with a little sigh.
“Pocket-book,” said Jim, examining it.
“I’ll take it, for the captain’s perusal,” said Dixon, holding out his hand. He had twisted a towel round his arm, and his face, streaked with blood, looked sufficiently grotesque. “Before we go any further, I think we’ll search you, Mr. Smith.”
Beyond the bulky pocket-book which had so narrowly escaped a watery grave, there was little of an incriminating nature to be found on the prisoner. Dixon took charge of any papers in his pockets, and of his keys; and in a corner of the cabin Wally picked up an electric torch—a powerful one, of new and elaborate design.
“Signalling apparatus,” said Dixon, glancing at it. His anger suddenly blazed out.
“What do you mean by it, you cowardly hound? Who paid you to sell your own people to the enemy?”